Wick: Hell on Earth
by HellGhost
Summary: It's 1985 and the assassin business in New York City is booming. Marcus takes his close ally Winston's advice to train two young apprentices; John Wick, and a young woman who calls herself Hell. Dedicated to Ben-my editor, lover, friend, and hero.


**Wick: Hell on Earth **

Book One

Part I

1985 - 1987

1 Marcus

It was five minutes to ten and Marcus sat alone at a table with two empty chairs, nursing a glass of soda water with lemon. He had decided to forego a harder drink in the interest of keeping his mind sharp. He would be introducing the two newcomers—his potential protégés—to each other, and wanted to be able to read them, assess the dynamic between them, determine if they were worth his time. Both of them were private, quiet, professional types, despite the fact that he was certain neither of them was over 23 years of age. He'd had his eye on them for a few months now, and sensed great potential. He and the young lady—she went by the moniker Hell—had ended up working a job together by chance, and he had been impressed with her. She was keen, passionate but collected—a powerful ally in combat. The other party—a young man by the name of Jonathan Wick—had come highly recommended from a trusted colleague. Marcus had yet to work in the field with him, but they had conversed over drinks and John came across focused, professional, young but committed to his craft.

Wick and Hell entered the bar at nearly the same moment, 9:58 pm, and approached Marcus just a few paces apart from each other.

"Punctual," Marcus said, standing as they reached him. "I appreciate that." He shook their hands and the trio seated themselves. "Hell, this is our associate Jonathan Wick. Jonathan, this is Hell."

"Call me John," he said as the pair shook hands. Hell simply nodded, but Marcus caught the quick upward pull at one corner of her lips.

"What do you drink?" Marcus asked. "I'll get the first round," he added, standing. He wanted to leave them alone for a moment, to observe them.

"Bourbon, neat," clipped John.

"Gin and tonic. Thank you, Marcus."

"No problem." Marcus walked over to the bar in no hurry, looking back to the table as the drinks were prepared. John and Hell were looking at each other sidelong, talking without animation. Neither of them smiled. When Marcus returned with the drinks, the pair were sitting calmly in silence, apparently observing their surroundings. He let the silence stretch out, curious which of them would break it.

John met his eyes, raising his glass with a nod of silent thanks before bringing it to his lips. Hell too gave him a deferential nod, before she plucked the lime off the side of her glass and dropped it into her gin and tonic, where she skewered it with her straw. She then turned her gaze back to Marcus, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively. None spoke. Marcus was impressed, and suppressed a smile.

"You both know my proposal," he began. "You're young, new to this business. If you're serious about it, you need to know people. It's not a friendly crowd, but friends will serve you well. I consider them necessary. I think we can help each other." Marcus paused, looking between his guests. They were both focused on him, taking in his words, trying to read him through micro expressions and body language. This pleased him—people like that were exactly the ones he wanted on his side. Still, neither of the two spoke.

"I see potential in you both," he continued, making eye contact with Hell, then John. "You need training. You need connections to the right people. I can help you with those things. I need more people I can trust to call when something needs to be done. You can help me with that."

Marcus kept his demeanor calm, professional. Conveying neither eagerness, nor threat. Hell's expression suggested cool attention; she sat legs crossed, straight-backed, eyes not leaving him.

John spoke, low, "Who says your people are the kind of people we want connections to?" He sat with his feet and shoulders squared, his expression stony but not entirely cold.

"Winston, for one." Marcus raised his glass toward the Manager of the Continental Hotel, seated at his regular booth in the corner. Winston nodded back, raising his martini in their direction. "Both of you have had interactions with him in the past, I understand. You should know I asked him about you before arranging this meeting. He had good things to say. I'm sure you can see why a relationship with him is worth cultivating."

"The manager knows you've offered us this… apprenticeship?" Hell questioned. Her mouth curved slightly into a kittenish smile as she nodded to Winston across the bar.

"I never used the word 'apprenticeship'," Marcus replied, "but yes, I consulted Winston about this arrangement before contacting either of you."

Hell sipped her gin and tonic, reclining slightly. "I'm interested."

"Glad to hear it," Marcus allowed a hint of a smile to grace his lips, then turned to John, "but I will need a yes from both of you. I don't have time to babysit a newbie. You'll need someone to watch your back, someone to train with."

John turned an appraising gaze to Hell, who met his eyes. "I'm listening."

2 Hell

Marcus was older than her own twenty years, but she wouldn't call him old. Far from it—she guessed him to be in his early thirties, assuming some active, probably painful living. She didn't doubt that an alliance with him would prove beneficial. If the stories she had managed to hear regarding Marcus over the past few months were accurate, he had been pulling major jobs since as early as the mid-seventies—when Hell had been only a child. Ten years in the business was a long time; many didn't last more than five, especially those who got in young. Marcus' continued survival and reputation indicated intelligence, skill, resources.

She was more wary of her proposed partner in this arrangement; John Wick, a man much closer to her own age. He had a peculiar sense of style—buttoned into an all black three-piece suit, tailored more slim-fitting than current fashion would dictate. It emphasized his tall, lean stature, leaving him looking slightly awkward—lanky—though he moved with grace. She couldn't help noting his physical attractiveness; he had high cheekbones, dark brown almond-shaped eyes, and he appeared carefully groomed. His dark hair was shorn neatly close to his scalp, and he sported a short beard that called to mind Clint Eastwood in _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_—though Eastwood's facial hair was lighter and not as patchy. The young man's expression stayed serious, brow slightly furrowed, lips nearly invisible beneath his mustache, but his features were fine, delicate. She would almost call him beautiful. The more she looked at him, the younger he appeared, and when his eyes met hers, she could swear she sensed softness just beyond his hard facade. Softness was not a quality Hell prized—in her experience being soft got people in trouble—but if training under Marcus meant she must work with Jonathan Wick, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She had gotten to know Marcus some in the time since they had worked together, and trusted his judgment.

She finished her gin and tonic. "When do we start?"

Marcus looked at John, "You're in?"

"Yeah," he answered, "I'm thinking so."

"I'm going to need a stronger affirmative than that if we're going to move forward."

John nodded. "Yes, I'm in."

Marcus smiled, congenial, the premature lines of his face standing out clearly. "Wonderful. In that case we start now. Welcome to the big leagues, both of you." He raised his glass to the pair of them before downing its contents.

"Can I get us another round to celebrate?" Hell offered coolly. She was eager to learn more about both of these men, to prepare for the work, but determined to maintain her aloof exterior.

Marcus stood, buttoning his jacket. "I'll take a rain check on that, I have other business that requires my attention. But please, stay and get familiar. Establish some common ground."

Hell stood and shook Marcus' hand. "I look forward to working with you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity."

"Please, Hell, call me Marcus." He turned and shook John's hand. "I'll be in contact with you both shortly."

"Thank you, Marcus." John said.

Marcus gave them each a congenial nod, and turned to depart. On his way to the exit, he stopped for a brief exchange of words with Winston, who had a pleased look on his face. She turned her gaze back to Wick, who had reseated himself. The chairs around the table were fairly small, low armchairs, and the way the tall young man was folded into the seat with his long limbs arranged around him, Hell thought he looked something like an oversized spider crouched in wait.

"Bourbon?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Please," he nodded.

She ordered the drinks and observed him from the bar. He sat nearly motionless, but his dark eyes were busy scanning the faces surrounding them. Suddenly they were on her, their eyes connecting across the distance. She looked away without thinking, then inwardly chastised herself. She should have held his gaze until he looked away, to establish dominance. Instead, she looked to Winston. He was looking at Wick, but after a moment his gaze also turned to Hell. She gave Winston a quick half-smile before turning away to pick up the drinks. She brought them back to the table, where she placed John's bourbon in front of him.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," Hell replied, seating herself. "Cheers," she said, raising her glass, "to new opportunities."

Wick nodded, looking somber. "New opportunities," he echoed, gently tapping her raised glass with his own.

They drank in silence. Her eyes flicked discreetly back to Winston; he was still observing them. She decided to wait for John to break the silence. With care she plucked the lime from the side of her glass, dropped it into her drink and set about muddling it carefully with the end of her straw before meeting his gaze as she brought the straw back to her lips.

"So," he finally spoke, "you've worked with Marcus in the past." It was more of a prompt than a question. Hell sipped her gin and tonic, nodding in silent agreement. John continued after a beat, "And in the field you found him… impressive?"

Hell didn't answer immediately, going back to thoughtfully destroying the lime in her drink. Eventually, she spoke, "I think he's a pro. He has a lot to offer." She sipped her drink again before adding, "And I think it would be unwise to get on the man's bad side."

John nodded. He was studying her, and Hell studied him right back, trying to imagine how she came across to him. She sat with erect posture, her face carefully blank, if slightly curious.

"So you know how he found me. How did he find you?" she asked.

His eyes left her—she followed their trajectory to Winston on the other side of the bar. "I'm not entirely sure." He drank from his glass of bourbon before returning his gaze to Hell. "I suppose somebody mentioned my name to him. He introduced himself to me here a few weeks back, that was the first I'd heard of him."

Hell would say that generally she didn't like people, but she did like knowing things about people. Over the last six months, since her arrival in New York, she had spent the vast majority of her time here, in the Continental Hotel. She made it her business to hear whatever she could, and when it seemed beneficial would insert herself into conversations, learning names and gathering information for later use. She had heard of Marcus shortly after her arrival; he had quite a reputation. That was why she had inserted herself into a situation that had resulted in herself and Marcus working together. Yet, she had heard nothing of the young man in front of her; John Wick. She wondered why.

"You work anywhere else before New York?" she asked, her tone softening, becoming more casual.

"No. And yourself?"

"No." She paused, considering elaborating some in a bid for trust. It wouldn't hurt, she thought, and shrugged her shoulders as she added wistfully, "Some people graduate high school and go off to college, some graduate and move to New York to start doing violence for money." She must have caught him off guard because his mouth cracked briefly into a smile for the first time she had seen.

"I suppose so," he replied.

3 John

The woman across the table from him was beautiful, but that was not what was interesting about her. She looked familiar, and yet John was almost positive he hadn't seen her before. Certainly they hadn't been introduced before, he wouldn't have forgotten a woman who called herself Hell. She had bright, keen eyes, busily assessing her surroundings, including him. He got the sense she was testing him somehow, but he wasn't sure what for. He finished the bourbon in his glass and offered to get another round.

"Please," she responded, echoing his earlier response to her same offer.

She was interesting, that was for sure. Awaiting the drinks at the bar, he wondered if he had made the right call in accepting Marcus' offer. The man was not wrong—John definitely needed to make more connections in his newly-inhabited underground environment—but he wondered at Marcus' motives. What did he expect to gain from John working in partnership with this woman? John had never been very interested in partners of any kind. Partnership required trust, something John gave sparingly. That was part of the draw of the business—it isolated you. It didn't do to have a vast network of friends or family who depended on you when you risked your life on a daily basis doing murder for hire. That suited John fine. Still, he found himself interested to learn more about this woman, his potential partner, without wanting to appear eager.

When he returned to the table Hell thanked him quietly for the drink and went about silently obliterating her slice of lime before putting the straw between her painted lips. _She's waiting for me to break the silence again_, he thought.

"Do you stay in the city?" he offered. It felt like inane small talk, but he needed to start somewhere.

She nodded, the edge of a smile curling her lips into a crooked smirk. "Right here," she said, "in the hotel."

He was surprised. He had also been staying in the hotel. He'd made an arrangement with the hotel manager, and had been living there for the last five months. How could he not have seen her? He made a point to be watchful, noting any newcomers that he encountered, and she didn't exactly blend in. Her hair fell just past her shoulders in bouncy curls, and was dyed a dark blue. He had briefly mistaken it for black when he first saw her in the low lit bar. Her lips were painted the same navy shade, eyes rimmed with black, lashes unnaturally long. The color of her eyes was unusual, almost golden, liquid amber. It was her eyes, he thought, that seemed familiar.

"You've been staying here too." She wasn't asking. "I've seen you."

"Strange that _I_ haven't seen _you_," he said, thrown.

"I think maybe you have." The smile still sat on one corner of her navy lips. She sensed, he thought, that she had caught him off-guard. She was enjoying it, sipping her gin.

He was still puzzling out her last enigmatic statement—_had_ they met before?—when she spoke again.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you Jonathan," she said as if in answer to his unspoken question. Suddenly she was standing to leave, drink in hand. He rose to meet her, taking her unoccupied hand in acceptance of the proffered handshake. He carefully kept his expression as neutral as possible.

"John's fine," he said. They both had nearly full drinks, but the meeting appeared to be over. "It was good to meet you, Hell."

"We'll see each other soon I imagine," she said, dropping his hand and picking up a clutch purse the color of her hair.

"I imagine so," he replied.

She nodded, flashing him a smile before turning her back on the table. He sat down again and found himself watching her walk away, noticing the bounce of her hair, the sway of her hips. He averted his gaze, picking up his bourbon to take a swig. Interesting she certainly was. He surreptitiously peered back in the direction she had gone, and saw that she had approached the booth of the manager, Winston. They were speaking. He motioned for her to sit, she obliged. She was letting Winston know, directly or not, that she had seen him observing them.

John scanned the rest of the bar crowd with his mind still on Hell, and Marcus. She had a flair for the dramatic, which unsettled him. That kind of behavior could get a person in trouble. He tried to place her in his memory, here or elsewhere in the Continental over the last five months, and came up empty except for a kind of half-memory of her unusual eyes making contact with his own. It confounded him, the idea that he would not remember her, curly mop of blue hair and all.

As he finished his drink John saw Hell stand from her place across from the manager. He was smiling at her as they shook hands. She left the table, and Winston caught John's eye, still smiling, raising a martini glass in his direction.

4 Marcus

The meeting had gone well, Marcus thought, but it was only the beginning. The next day he called both Hell and Wick at their rooms and instructed them to meet him at a warehouse space that Marcus and his associates used. He needed to assess their combat skills. If they were to make useful allies they would need to be able to defend themselves, and deliver deadly force when necessary. Marcus himself was trained in an array of martial arts—he highly valued proficiency in unarmed combat—in addition to the use of various types of weapons. There was a time and place, in his experience, for all manner of violence.

In the center of the warehouse floor stood an old boxing ring, perfect for hand-to-hand combat training. The meeting was to commence shortly, and Marcus observed Hell through a dirty window. She was early, idling across the street, smoking a cigarette. Her hair had changed, but he had come to expect that. The young lady appeared to have a predilection for wigs, disguises. Not a bad idea in their line of work; when he stopped to think about it he wondered why more assassins didn't adopt a similar tactic.

John walked down the street, passing directly in front of Hell without acknowledging her. Marcus chuckled; could his young colleague have just passed by his new partner without recognizing her in the least? They would need to work on his observation skills.

"John," Marcus called as the younger man walked through the door. "Welcome, thanks for coming."

"Glad to be here," John replied, taking Marcus' hand to shake.

Hell tossed the butt of her cigarette in the gutter as she walked across the street, and entered the warehouse. Her hair looked natural, too short to be a wig. Smart for combat training, Marcus thought.

"I'm interested to see what you have in mind—" John had begun when Hell entered his field of vision. He could not disguise his surprise, cutting his own thought short. Marcus suppressed another chuckle, turning to Hell.

"Welcome, Hell. Enjoy your smoke?" Marcus took her hand in a firm shake.

"Oh yes," she replied. "Thanks, Marcus. I'm eager to get started."

"Perfect." Marcus clapped his hands together only once, but it echoed off the high ceiling like a crack of thunder. "Let's get started."

5 John

He stood opposite Hell near the center of the boxing ring. She looked completely different than she had the previous night. In fact, he had passed her by on his arrival without so much as a twinge of recognition. Her cocktail dress and heels had been replaced by loose fitting jeans, a black tee shirt, and Doc Marten boots, all of which looked like they had seen better days. Her mop of blue curls was gone, as was her makeup. Her hair was dark brown, short. Not much longer than his own, but enough so to stick up in tousled irregular spikes on top. In her current form she somehow looked both harsher and softer than before. The absence of makeup made her eyes and mouth appear smaller, sharper, and somehow also took years off her apparent age. He wondered if she was younger than his own twenty-one years.

"Okay!" Marcus called from the side of the ring. "Let's see what you're workin' with!"

Hell cautiously sidestepped toward John and they began to circle each other. He didn't doubt the importance of hand-to-hand combat proficiency, but he had to admit he was rusty. He had become—maybe _too_—heavily reliant on his fast-growing collection of firearms. They continued to circle, hands at the ready. Was she waiting for him to make the first move? He swiped at her, just to knock her off balance, and she caught his wrist. Deftly she spun and, before he could think, used their combined body weight to bring them both crashing to the ground. Before he knew it, she had him pinned. John was surprised. She was significantly smaller than he, but she knew what she was doing, and she was quick, deliberate.

"Nice," Marcus called, "but don't hold back. Being able to take a beating is just as important as being able to dish one out."

They got back to their feet. This time John was determined to get the upper hand. He didn't hesitate, making a grab for her shoulder. She surprised him again, ducking his hand and ramming her skull into his solar plexus. It knocked the wind out of him, but he didn't allow himself to stagger back, instead leaning in to get his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides. She spun her body in an attempt to slip his grip, but she only succeeded in turning around. He maneuvered his arm around her throat, securing her in a choke hold. They struggled against each other—she kicked him powerfully in the shin, forcing his leg out from under him, bringing them both down to their knees. His grip on her throat had loosened and his forearm burst with pain as she bit him, hard. The pain was intense. He suppressed a cry, pulling his arm away from her, concerned she would draw blood. She escaped him, scrabbled away and up to her feet. He was halfway to his feet when her foot connected with his rib cage, knocking him prone. _This chick is not fucking around,_ he thought, _that kick felt dangerously close to breaking bone._ He saw that her bite had indeed drawn blood, if not very much. Her leg swung out to kick him again, but this time he caught her foot in both hands, twisting it hard. She bit off a cry of pain and fell to her hands and knees—he seized the moment and fell upon her. Pinning her to the ground with his body, he again encircled her neck with his arm, not holding back this time. Her airway was cut off, and if she didn't give up soon she would lose consciousness. Her hand fluttered on the mat next to them; she was tapping out.

Marcus clapped. "Better!" he called, picking his coat up from a nearby chair and pulling it on. "Keep going until you can't, but please—_non-fatal_ blows. I want you both alive when I contact you." And with that, John and Hell were left alone.

"How's your neck?" he asked. The human neck was delicate, and hers had felt so small, like that of a bird or a kitten. He didn't really want to be responsible for causing her serious injury.

"How's your fuckin ribs?" Hell taunted, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer. "Come on big man, see if you can get this girl pinned again!"

He did get her pinned again, but only after a few hours of having his ass handed to him. The woman was strong, fast, agile, and she knew where to place a blow. She was martial arts trained for sure, he thought, but she moved almost like a gymnast or a dancer, and knew when to fight dirty. She had taken Marcus seriously—she wasn't holding back. She wouldn't kill him, he was fairly sure, but she intended to hurt him. Marcus may have been right, John admitted to himself, to think that them training like this together was necessary. He was significantly below Hell's level in this arena. By the time John succeeded in getting her pinned again, the sun had sunk well below the horizon. His body ached; bruised ribs complaining with every breath, his left ear blazing with pain and ringing from Hell's fist. When she finally tapped out he was utterly relieved, collapsing to roll away from her and lay on his back in the middle of the ring, panting.

She sat up next to him and spat out a mouthful of blood. "You ok?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Yeah, I'm thinking so." His jaw wasn't closing quite right, and he was sure that when he looked later it would be bruised. "What about you?"

She ran her hand through her hair, damp with sweat, tousling it into fresh spikes."Peachy," she answered.

"Ready to call it a night?"

She turned to look at him, a smile just barely playing at the edges of her mouth. "You look ready to."

6 Hell

It had been a good day, Hell thought. Her body ached, but not as much as John's did, she was sure. The man certainly knew how to get back up, she would give him that. Outside the old warehouse she retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of her denim jacket and lit one, taking a deep drag and expelling the smoke before starting her walk to the subway. The nicotine and night air mixed with the adrenaline still pumping through her system, leaving her feeling pleasantly high. She had only gotten a block from the warehouse when a well-polished slate gray Mustang with a matte black racing stripe pulled up alongside her. The passenger side door popped open and she saw John leaning over from the driver's seat.

"Going back to the hotel?" he asked.

She thought about saying no—just to be alone, or to fuck with him—but the prospect of being back to the hotel sooner rather than later was tantalizing. She was exhausted, and wanted a drink. "I am," she answered.

"Want a lift?"

She slid into the passenger seat. "Thank you."

He nodded mutely and turned back to the road, accelerating away from the curb. She observed him out of the corner of her eye as she tapped the ash of her cigarette out the window. He didn't tell her to put it out. _Wish You Were Here_ by Pink Floyd emanated softly from the stereo. She liked Pink Floyd. Peeking into the back she saw a worn leather jacket slung across the seat. On the floor, a brown paper bag of glass bottles lightly chiming against each other, presumably full of liquor. She wondered fleetingly if he had a drinking problem; so many in their line of work did.

She directed her gaze back to John. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, one arm resting on the open window. He was wearing a white tee shirt, still damp with sweat and clinging to him in places. The day of combat training had put her in the mood for sex. John's sculpted arms looked undeniably enticing—beautiful even—to her hungry eyes. It was too bad they were working together; if they weren't she would try to get him in bed. He was strong, focused, had held his own in the ring with her despite her clearly superior technique. His weight felt good on top of her—the handful of times he had managed to get her on the ground—and he wasn't afraid to hurt her. Not to mention that she would bet that he looked great naked.

She remembered that she actually had considered trying to get John in bed before they started working together; the first time she saw him at the Continental. It was in the Speakeasy a month or so into her stay at the hotel. She was on the prowl for her next one-night stand, and saw John standing at the end of the bar, drink in hand. A tall, slim young man in an entirely black suit, dark hair buzzed to nearly nothing, his beard more than a little patchy but carefully groomed. He was a new face—a strikingly _attractive_ new face—his eyes dark, and alive with observation. She decided to get closer, to see if she could get him to approach her. She went to stand next to him and ordered a drink at the bar. Looking him over, she wondered how old he was. She was getting used to feeling like the youngest person in the crowd at the Continental, but she thought he might have her beat. After a moment he seemed to take notice of her standing beside him, observing him, and she allowed their eyes meet for just a fraction of a moment before she turned away. Taking her gin and tonic she walked off without a word to look for someone more experienced, probably older. Looking back on the brief interaction Hell was relieved that she hadn't pursued him; it would have added an inconvenient wrinkle to their professional relationship.

She and John had more sparring practice over the following weeks. Sometimes Marcus would stay and give them specific skills to work on, but mostly they were left to their own devices. John usually drove her back to the hotel, both of them too exhausted to say much, content to sit in silence and listen to whatever album John had in the stereo—mostly Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, or Johnny Cash. They had begun sitting together regularly at the bar, when they happened to be there at the same time. She was drinking alone one day—an off day from sparring—scanning the other patrons for a possible sexual partner, when John appeared at her side in one of his black suits.

"This seat taken?"

"Not yet."

He sat down and asked the bartender for a glass of bourbon, which materialized almost instantly. "How are you?" he asked, and sipped his drink.

"Not bad," she answered. Then added, deadpan, "I'd be better if I could get fucked."

John choked on his bourbon and Hell turned away, stifling a laugh. She was growing to enjoy his company, and found her ability to surprise and disorient him hilarious.

He cleared his throat, raising his glass in her direction. "Cheers to that."

Their glasses clinked. "How are you?" she asked.

"Not bad. A bit sore."

She chuckled, "I bet you are." The previous day's combat practice had been vigorous, and ended early after Hell managed to dislocate John's shoulder. She had helped him pop the bone back into its socket, but she knew that it would still hurt like a bitch. She tossed a sheet of long blonde hair over her own shoulder, and went back to scanning the other bar-goers. She spotted one of her previous one-night stands—_Thomas, was it?_—across the bar, sitting alone. She didn't prefer to sleep with anyone more than once, it made things more complicated, but she would occasionally make an exception when other options failed to present themselves. Suddenly she felt impatient, and made the decision to go for the easy target.

"Have a good night, John. Rest up that shoulder, it's no fun kicking your ass if you're not in fighting shape." She deliberately patted John's bad shoulder and walked away, toward Thomas.

Later, in her now two-night stand's hotel room, she was dissatisfied. The sex was fine, but ultimately boring, and far too gentle. She urged him to go harder, not hold back, but he didn't seem to be getting the message. She found herself thinking of John—the near deadly force with which he threw her to the ground and held her there in the ring, the sound of him gasping, biting back a cry of exquisite pain—what a shame it was that it would be such a bad idea to fuck him. Picturing John throwing her down in the ring, his hands around her throat, she grabbed Thomas' hand and forced it up around her neck, instructing him to choke her. She let her right hand slip down to stimulate her clit, and finally she was able to orgasm.

When it was done Hell went into the bathroom and showered quickly, careful not to get her wig wet. Toweling off in front of the mirror, she noticed five fingerprint-sized bruises on her neck and smiled. She gathered her things and left the room while Thomas was in the bathroom, avoiding any awkward questions about when he could see her again.

7 John

John sat for a while at the bar, part of him hoping that Hell would return, or that Marcus would appear and join him. They didn't, which was just as well. He didn't mind drinking alone. He could appreciate silence, and the white-noise blur of numerous conversations around the bar. He let his mind wander. Hell's voice echoed in his head, joking about her desire to "get fucked," and he wondered idly if that was what she had left the bar to do. He thought about her in the ring, her strong legs wrapped around him, her breath hot and ragged on his neck. He felt something tug in his chest, and gave his head a light shake, as if to banish the thought. It would be unwise to start having sexual thoughts about Hell. It would be a distraction. Maybe he _did_ need to get laid, he mused, it had been some time. A one-night stand with one of the other hotel guests could do him good.

He downed the rest of his bourbon and scanned the bar crowd one last time before resolving to leave alone. In the elevator, John pressed the button for the sixteenth floor. On seven the doors slid open, and he was surprised to see Hell there. Her room was on the fourteenth floor, he had ridden this elevator with her enough times to know.

"Well, well, fancy seeing you here," she said, swaying through the doors. She was wearing the same tight-fitting, low-necked red dress she had on in the bar, but she had removed her suede jacket, baring her shoulders. She pressed the button for fourteen.

"Where are you coming from?" he asked without really thinking about what her answer could be. He noticed a grouping of purple bruises on her neck that he was fairly sure hadn't been there earlier.

"None of your business," she said curtly.

He gestured to her neck. "Are those from me or did you get into some trouble?"

She tossed her head back in laughter, real laughter, the bruises standing out against the gothic paleness of her neck. He found himself suppressing a smile; her laughter was a delight. "No, John, not from you, and not from trouble. These are recreational bruises." She brought her hand to her neck as if the bruises were an expensive necklace.

The elevator stopped at her floor, the doors sliding open. "It was a pleasure seeing you, John," she crooned, slipping out the door. "Goodnight!" she called over her shoulder. When the elevator doors began to slide shut he caught himself still watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

When he got back to his room he turned on some music—Johnny Cash _At Folsom Prison_—poured himself another bourbon, and laid down on the bed. His eyes were closed, but he was nowhere near sleep. Hell was still on his mind. Her mouth breaking into a smile, the sound of her laugh, the bruises on her neck, the sound of her crying out when he landed a good blow, the feeling of her straddling him, holding him down in the ring… He sat up abruptly and took a long drink. _Fuck_, he thought, _I do need to get laid. _

The truth was, his sparring sessions with Hell were the most physically intimate activity he had engaged in with any other person for what felt like an eternity. He had always been soft spoken, and lacked whatever skill it was that allowed some people to talk near-strangers into going to bed with them. Truthfully, he also lacked the desire to sleep with anyone he didn't have some emotional connection with. This made things difficult; since beginning his new career John had realized that casual one-night stands were basically the only kind of sex people in this community engaged in, and emotional connection was heavily discouraged. He was going to have to adjust. He hadn't expected the adjustment to be so difficult, he had never thought of himself as one to get distracted by such base urges.

Hell swayed into his mind again. She didn't seem to have any trouble finding strangers to satisfy her sexual needs, if he was reading her "recreational bruises" correctly. He felt a pang of jealousy, wasn't sure if it was for Hell or the men who got to fuck her, and pushed the thought from his mind before he could examine it further. He downed his bourbon and stood to retrieve a fresh bucket of ice from down the hall. He would take an ice bath—cool his blood and soothe his aching muscles.

Over the following weeks Marcus added firearms training to their schedule. It was satisfying to be doing something he considered himself very good at, even more so because he was significantly more experienced with guns than Hell was. After starting out so far below her level in their hand-to-hand sparring, he was enjoying feeling like the more competent of the two of them for a change. She wasn't a bad shot, but John was more accurate, and faster. She claimed to prefer the stealth quality of a blade or a garrote.

John was growing impatient to get on a job. It had been over two months since they had begun this arrangement and they hadn't worked one yet, and thus had not been paid. Marcus had promised they would be paid the same as he, but that meant nothing if the man wouldn't take them out on jobs. The stash of coins John had been saving was getting light.

"We need to be in the field on a job," John said to Hell over drinks in the bar one night. He was a few drinks in, and maybe a touch too casual. "What do you think Marcus is thinking? We're ready. We've been ready."

"If Marcus thinks we need more training for the jobs he has in mind then it's likely we do."

John studied Hell's face, looking for some hint of the same frustration he felt on the subject. She was unreadable, except for traces of boredom. Her hair today was a chin-length bob with straight, blunt bangs short enough to reveal her eyebrows. Both her hair and brows were colored the same auburn red, her lips painted a rusty orange. She made eye contact with him and sipped her gin and tonic, brows just barely raised. Her eyes were their usual amber gold, framed by dark lashes, but for the first time he noticed the fine rings of green that rimmed her pupils and outlined her irises.

Her eyes left his, lighting up. She nodded subtly, looking over his shoulder as she said, "Speak of the devil."

8 Marcus

The combat training had been going well; Marcus had seen improvement in the performance of both parties. Particularly, Hell's marksmanship and general firearms knowledge—which had been less developed than he had hoped—had vastly improved. Wick, while already highly skilled with firearms, had benefited immensely from Hell's skill for hand-to-hand combat. Marcus was gaining confidence that these two could be great assets to each other, and—of course—himself. He had found a job, one that required a three man crew, and he thought it was time to bring the newbies in. Target shooting and sparring were all well and good, but certain things one must learn in the field.

Winston and various bartenders had confirmed that Hell and John had been spending a significant amount of their free time together in the Continental's Speakeasy. Talking quietly or drinking together in silence. Marcus had been avoiding the place more than usual, wanting to maintain an air of aloofness with his new colleagues. That night, however, he went hoping they would be there. He needed only a moment to spot them, sitting together at the bar. Hell was wearing a wig he had seen at least once before, and John cut a recognizable figure with his fresh buzz cut and slim-tailored black suit. Hell caught his eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, saying something to John, her lips unreadable at this distance. John glanced back over his shoulder at Marcus, looking away before he could read his expression.

"Marcus, what a pleasant surprise," said Hell in greeting upon his approach. John had turned in his seat and moved to stand, but Marcus stopped him.

"Please, don't get up."

"What brings you, Marcus?" John asked. He seemed tipsy—something in the way he spoke gave it away.

"If now is a good time," Marcus said, looking from John to Hell, "I'd like to invite the two of you to my suite for a drink. We have business to discuss."

"Now is a good time," Hell replied promptly, placing her now empty drink on the bar. She was playing it cool but her eagerness shone through. John's jaw had tightened, his back straightened, gaze sobered. He too was eager for the work, the prospect of a pay day.

"Room 2020. Be there in ten minutes."

"We'll see you there," said Hell, an understated smile brightening her face.

"Thank you, Marcus," John added.

In the elevator, Marcus let the questions in his mind voice themselves momentarily. Was it unwise to have invited two such young and relatively unknown people into his business? Was it naive to think that they would work better as a team? Was the whole venture a waste of time? Worse—a risky, potentially very dangerous waste of time?

The elevator doors opened, and he dismissed the doubts from his mind. It was better to get these young guns on his side early, than to wait for them to become enemies. As Winston had taken Marcus himself underwing when he was just a twenty year old kid starting out… The arrangement was going to work out in all of their favors. He needed to continue with absolute confidence if he was going to make useful allies of these promising young killers.

9 Hell

Soon Hell and Wick were making their way together to the elevator, headed up to the 21st floor. He was quiet. She looked him up and down, wondering how many drinks he'd had. She had seen him have three, but he could have started drinking before she arrived. She could tell by his manner of speech and the relaxed way he held his body that he was at least somewhat intoxicated. When they were safely alone in the elevator, she asked him. "How many drinks have you had?"

"That's none of your business," John replied, too sassy.

"It _is_ my business if you're too drunk to look like a _professional_ at this meeting." She hissed, low, "Marcus has made it _very_ clear that he's only interested in working with us as a pair, and if you fuck this up for me right when it's about to get profitable _I swear_ to you I will make you regret it." She had John's attention. He straightened his posture, wiped the hint of a playful smile from his face.

"Shit, Hell, I'm not _drunk_. I had four drinks, okay? I can be a professional. I don't wanna fuck this up any more than you do."

"Then _act_ like it," she clipped as the doors slid open, depositing them onto the 21st floor.

They stood side by side in front of the door marked 2020. Hell knocked—she could hear movement through the door, the chink of a glass being set down, footfalls crossing the room—then Marcus was in front of them, the door open.

"Welcome," he said, waving them into the suite. It was much larger than Hell's room, or any personal room she had seen since her stay at the Continental. The ceilings were high, as were the windows, and a fireplace, in front of which was a kind of lounge area with a low table and comfortable-looking chairs. Marcus directed them to sit and offered them drinks, indicating the well-stocked bar.

"Thank you Marcus," Hell replied, "I'd love a gin and tonic."

"My pleasure," he said, filling a glass with ice. "John? Anything I can do for you?"

"Coffee, if it's not too much trouble," John answered. Hell was pleased; he had taken her warning seriously.

"No trouble," Marcus assured him. He finished mixing Hell's gin and tonic, placed it on the table in front of her, and walked over to the coffee machine. His back to them, he spoke, "I've been very impressed with you. You've both shown marked improvement in skills that two months ago were lacking. You've given me reason to find you trustworthy, reliable. Willing to learn." He turned back to face them. "I appreciate that. I've found some work. It's a three-man job."

Hell's eyes went cold. She had a very low tolerance for even the most casual, seemingly innocuous sexism. "Well, that's a damn shame," she snipped.

Marcus turned a confused eye to her, looking for humor in her face—expecting humor—and finding her stern.

"I only see two men here," she said by way of explanation, raising one brow in a challenge, holding Marcus' gaze. He looked baffled for a moment, but quickly shook it off.

"The job requires three _people_. I want you two on it with me." Marcus looked at Hell with an expression that she thought held a silent, slightly befuddled apology.

She was relieved, uncrossing her arms. Men as a rule did not appreciate being called out on sexism, but Marcus had taken it well. It would seem like a small thing to him, she was sure—maybe he even thought of it as a compliment, lumping her in with them as one of the men—but Hell found that those kinds of small things added up fast. Even if they were just words, they were symptomatic of something that really wasn't small at all. She couldn't stand to work closely with people who would never consider her an equal. This aspect of her personality had earned her the label of "feminist bitch" many times—a description of herself which she did not entirely deny, though she found the men who used it generally unbearable.

"Who's the target?" John inquired. He was seated with his feet planted squarely in front of him, leaned slightly forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees. Hell adjusted her own posture, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders.

"It's a revenge job. Somebody killed the wrong guy's daughter, and did some other unsavory things. Now there's a $600,000 contract out for him. Split that three ways, we each walk away with $200,000."

This was it then, her first job in months. Her first job with John. Hell's adrenaline spiked, but she maintained her cool facade, reclining slightly, arms extended on the chair's armrests.

"His name is Calvin Marshall, he's a high-profile businessman. He's got a lot of friends, but he knows he has enemies. He travels a lot, always with a security detail. Three to five big guys depending on the city," Marcus continued. He approached the table with a cup of coffee for John, and one for himself. "You two with me so far?"

"I'm in," John replied firmly.

Marcus nodded and toasted him with his coffee mug.

"What did he do?" Hell asked, before she really knew she was going to. "To the daughter," she clarified.

Marcus looked at her, searching her face. She looked back stonily.

"She was sixteen, hitchhiking. He had his limo driver stop for her." Marcus' eyes left Hell's, turning his gaze instead to his coffee. "Raped her, killed her in the process. He and a couple of his security guys, from the sound of it. Left her body in a ditch on the side of the highway." He looked back at Hell, "And I have it on good authority this wasn't his first time."

"What was her name?" she asked.

"Georgia." Marcus paused, letting the name hang in the air. "Do you need to know more?"

This time it was her turn to stare into her drink, teeth gritted with suppressed rage. "No. I'm in," she growled.

"Good," Marcus said. "Then we can start talking about how we're going to kill this piece of shit."

10 John

Although Hell's comments about his drinking had been unexpected—she was hardly in any place to judge him, as far as he had seen—it was perhaps not entirely uncalled for. Had she not said something he probably would have opted for bourbon over coffee upon arriving at Marcus' suite, and he could see with hindsight that may not have been wise. As it stood—he and Marcus both drinking coffee—he was keeping up just fine. He mentally thanked Hell for her foresight. He was starting to enjoy having a partner more than he had ever expected, and found himself looking forward to working this job alongside her.

Marcus continued, "I hope you two don't have plans tonight, because we have a lot to go over and not much time." He went over the details of the job, set for a mere 46 hours away. Their target would be flying into town on business, staying at a hotel nearby. Marcus had connections with a high-end escort service, the proprietor of which had agreed to help them out when Calvin Marshall—known to them through word of mouth as a dangerous client—reached out to make a booking with one of their girls. The escort service would provide Marcus with the time and place of the booking, and instead of sending one of their girls, he intended to send Hell. She would pose as the sex worker in order to get through the door. John was to be shortly behind her, and Marcus placed himself on a rooftop across the street with a sniper rifle.

They ran over and over the details of the plan late into the night, trying to think out and plan for every possible combination of outcomes. Hell switched her drink to water, still adding a slice of lime so she could mutilate it with her straw.

Marcus brought out a manila folder containing photos and pages of text.

"This is the target." He indicated a photo of an unnaturally tan middle-aged white man. He was clean shaven, his hair a chestnut brown color that looked too even to be natural. His smug expression evoked a guttural distaste in John. Hell looked plainly disgusted.

"Here's his full security team." Marcus pulled out a page with six more photos of unpleasant looking white men. "He will have at least four of them with him. Probably more, looking at the price on his head."

"Do you know which of them were with him the night they killed Georgia?" Hell asked, studying the photos intensely.

Marcus looked at her, seeming to contemplate his next move. He leaned over the table and pointed out two of the men in the array. One with a shiny bald head overcompensated for by a massive beard, the other sporting a militaristic flat top haircut and unruly unibrow. "The driver said it was these two," he said, raising his eyes to her face. "But they don't have contracts out for their lives."

Hell raised her gaze from the photos to meet Marcus'. "Of course." Her tone was sweet, but her eyes revealed something darker. She was hoping that those two men would be part of the security detail when the time came so she could kill them herself, John imagined.

By the time he and Hell went back to their rooms it was after two in the morning. John pulled off his tie and jacket, tossing them over a chair, and poured himself some bourbon. Marcus had suggested they get some rest, but he was wired from too much coffee. He selected a tape from his collection—Naked Eyes, _Burning Bridges—_and put it on quietly, not wanting to disturb his neighbors. He kicked off his shoes and laid back on the bed, resting the glass of bourbon on his chest. $200,000 he thought. That was a lot of money. More than he'd made on a single job in his life. He closed his eyes and deliberately expelled all of the air from his lungs, filling them again slowly, attempting to quiet his humming mind. He considered pulling out his gun collection and cleaning them. They didn't actually need cleaning, but he found the ritual meditative. Instead he just laid where he was, focusing on his breathing and intermittently sipping his drink.

After a while he sat up, shooting back the last of his bourbon before setting his glass down and unbuttoning his dress shirt. He had just tossed the shirt onto the chair with his jacket and tie when he heard a light knock at the door. His watch read 2:57 am, and for a second he wondered if he had imagined the knocking. He sat in silence for a moment, and the knocking came again, slightly louder. John rose and crossed the room to the door, peering through the peephole.

Hell stood on the other side, arms crossed. She had removed her wig and her makeup, and changed into athletic shorts and a sporty crop-top. She looked like she was headed to the gym. The skin of her legs, arms, and abdomen were adorned with bruises from their sparring, blooming in gradients of blue, purple, red, and yellow. He had never seen so much of her skin before. She looked directly at him through the peephole.

"I know you're in there, John." She sounded exasperated. "I can hear you. Wanna open the door?"

He opened the door.

11 Hell

John stood in the open doorway of his room, clad in black dress pants and socks, white tee shirt untucked.

"Hey," he greeted her. He kept his face neutral, but she could tell that he was surprised to see her.

"Hey," she echoed. Then after a moment, "Can I come in or should we just stand here?"

He moved to the side and gestured for her to enter. She had never been in his room before, but it was familiar. It looked very much like her own room, if slightly rearranged, with a different view. And neater. Two chairs like her own sat by the window, his shirt, jacket, and tie were haphazardly draped over one of them.

"How did you know which room was mine?" he asked.

"As if you don't know my room number," she replied dismissively, sauntering into the room. "Can't sleep?"

"Haven't tried," he answered, shutting the door behind her.

Back in her room, she had tried a little bit to sleep, but she couldn't quiet her mind. She had considered going down to the bar to look for a stranger to coax into bed with her, but it was late, and the impending job was too present in her thoughts. Besides, she had already gone to the trouble of removing her hair and makeup. What she really wanted was a fight. That was when she had decided to go by John's room, just to see if he was awake. Now that she was there she wasn't entirely sure what to do. She sat in an unoccupied chair as he poured himself a glass of bourbon.

"Can I get one of those?"

"I don't have any gin," he said without turning toward her.

"I can be flexible."

He poured a second glass of bourbon, brought it to her, and went to perch on the edge of his bed.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this late night appearance?" he asked.

She nearly laughed at his language; it was so flowery, like something Winston would say. It was late, and she was buzzing with caffeine, adrenaline, and drink—feeling slightly giddy.

"Couldn't sleep," she told him honestly, sipping her bourbon. She made an involuntary face at the taste, bourbon wasn't her drink. He saw it, and let out a short laugh.

"Wanna fight?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him and taking a larger sip of bourbon. A fight was what she had come for after all, wasn't it?

"You want to go to the warehouse now?" John raised both eyebrows back at her.

"I was thinking here," Hell replied, eyeing the room. It was mostly tidy. Very tidy actually, if you ignored the day's discarded clothes occupying the chair adjacent her. "The job is in a hotel. We're in a hotel. Might be good practice."

John held his eyes on her, then looked around the room.

"I don't know if my neighbors here would appreciate that kind of activity this late." He looked back at Hell, sitting in front of a glass-topped coffee table. "And I don't want to get stuck paying the hotel for broken furniture."

She leaned back, crossing her legs, disappointed.

"What are you, chicken?" she teased, knowing how stupid it sounded, but sleep deprived and tipsy enough not to care. The rational part of her knew he had a point. His stony expression broke into a smile and he laughed, the sight and sound of which brought a smile to her face before she could stop it.

"What are you, twelve years old?" he teased back, a faint smile staying on his lips.

"Fuck off," she said, still half smiling herself, sipping her nearly empty bourbon.

"How old are you?" John asked after a moment, peering at her sidelong. She almost answered without thinking, but caught herself. Better to maintain mystery. Besides, people were so weird, she didn't want to take the risk that knowing she was just barely out of her teens would change the way her new partner treated her.

"Why do you care?" she retorted.

John shrugged lazily. "Just curious," he answered. Sipping his drink, he gave no indication of surprise at her refusal to answer.

"How old are you?" she asked back.

"I'll never tell," he said, shooting her a sly smile.

"Old enough to buy liquor?"

"A fair guess," he nodded.

"I think…" she began, studying him as she finished her drink. His unlined face, uneven beard, utilitarian haircut. She glanced at the suit jacket and tie draped across the chair adjacent her. The beard, the suits, they were an attempt to make himself look more mature, serious—she was sure of this. It was similar to her own use of makeup, her fashion choices. And—not unlike herself—he naturally had fine, soft features. She assumed that he too had been told his whole life that he looked young for his age. "You're twenty-one," she finished, confident.

He looked at her blankly for a moment before a smile washed over his features. "You're good," he said, raising his glass to her before draining it. "And you are…" he studied her for a moment. She kept her face serious. "Eighteen," he guessed.

"Fuck you,"

"Am I wrong?" he asked, still smiling.

"Yes," she answered firmly, looking him dead in the eyes, unamused.

"Older or younger than eighteen then?"

"Seriously," Hell rolled her eyes, "fuck you." She slammed her empty glass down on the glass top table, not quite hard enough to do any damage. She hated when people thought of her as a teenager, and ironically it triggered a response in her that was undeniably teen-esque.

"Seventeen?" he prodded. "But you said before that you graduated high school, so that would have to mean that you were smart enough to graduate early..." he trailed off, daring her to jump in and satisfy his curiosity. Instead, she got to her feet.

"Thanks for the drink, John, it's been, oh, so fun."

"You couldn't possibly be sixteen?"

"Fuck you, John, goodnight," she called over her shoulder, shutting the door harder than she intended behind her. As she walked down the hall back to the elevator, she found that she couldn't help but smile.

12 Marcus

Everything was set, the team in go positions, which left Marcus on the roof of an office building across the street from the target's hotel room. He knew that his skills with a sniper rifle made him most useful in his current position, but still he craved being inside the hotel with his team. Hell and John were highly skilled—he had made sure of that—but still they were practically kids. He did his best to keep them at a professional arm's length—as a rule he didn't allow feelings to hold sway over professional decisions, or really any decisions he made. Despite this, he couldn't deny that he had begun to feel something like a true affinity for both of them. They reminded him of himself at their age. He was surprised to find himself unable to shut out concerns for their safety. The very real prospect that one or both of them could be killed in the next hour working a job he had brought them in on loomed heavily in the periphery of his thoughts.

He had scouted out the rooftop days prior and found a perfect sniper's nest. Even if Marshall and his men expected snipers, they wouldn't see him. The curtains to the target's windows were closed, but Marcus kept his sight trained on them, waiting for movement. He checked his watch: 9:58 pm. Marshall had made his appointment with the escort service for 10:00, and Hell was in place to greet him then. Her first objective was to get the curtains open without blowing her cover. If she could manage that, Marcus would get a clear shot of the target quickly—if not, the ball went to Hell. She was to blow her cover and take out as many as possible, as quietly as possible. If there was gunfire in the room, John was to break down the door connecting his room to the target's and intervene. The plan was solid. They could do this, he told himself. They already were.

The clock struck the hour, and Marcus focused in on the two neighboring sets of windows. Unlike Marshall's the curtains into John's room were open—Marcus could see him inside, standing attentively near the adjoining door, facing the window. Marcus directed his gaze to the closed curtains of the target's suite of rooms, searching for any sign of movement. He waited, motionless, unsure how much time had passed. He flicked his eyes back to John, who was now standing, gun drawn, listening closely to the room neither he nor Marcus could see into.

Why hadn't Hell gotten the curtains open? Marcus stared at the covered windows through the scope of his rifle, willing the curtains to move. Suddenly they did—but not to open. A large shape had fallen into the window, depressing the curtain for a moment before disappearing. Shit, he thought, Hell's cover was blown. Combat had begun. At least there was no gunplay yet. Marcus had barely allowed the thought to form when two pops—unmistakably gunfire—rang out. John sprang into action, wasting no time smashing open the flimsy adjoining door with his shoulder in one swift motion. Gunfire continued, and after a long moment the same curtain moved again, not sliding to one side but being ripped down from its hanging place, revealing to Marcus a lurid sliver of visibility into the room.

13 Hell

It was two minutes to go-time, and she was anxious to begin. Hell exited the elevator, walking down the hall with measured steps, arriving at the door to Calvin Marshall's suite at precisely 10:00 pm. She was dressed to fit the part of a professional female escort—or, to the layman, a hooker—in a tight dress the color of champagne, puffy faux fur coat, stiletto heeled boots, and long blonde hair. Under the dress she was cinched into a steel-boned corset, custom altered to be bulletproof. Her lips were painted cherry red, and she carried a matching handbag. Just inside her right boot was a blade, strapped to her calf. The fur coat was lined with pockets, within them she concealed a handgun along with a wire garrote and two smaller knives more suited to throwing.

She fixed a smile on her face that she hoped projected something between friendly and sultry, and knocked on the door. She heard a chorus of masculine laughter from inside; Marcus had been right, there were at least five of them.

The door opened, revealing a tall man in a black t-shirt and jeans. She recognized him from the photo array Marcus had shown them. He looked her up and down slowly, a lecherous smile on his lips. It took significant self control to keep her face friendly, to conceal her disgust.

"Hi," she said in a voice markedly higher pitched than her usual one. "Is this Mr. Marshall's suite?"

"It is," he replied, moving to one side and ushering her in. "Come on in."

She took in the room as she entered, and heard the shut firmly and lock behind her. The curtains were closed—as Marcus had told her to expect—and there were six men total seated in various positions around the lounge portion of the suite. The target approached her.

"You must be Chrissy," he said, calling her by the name the escort service had told him. "I'm Calvin Marshall. Call me Cal." He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Pleasure to meet you, Cal," she said with a giggle, keeping her voice bubbly.

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, little lady," he chuckled darkly.

_I wouldn't be so sure of that_, she thought. Her heart was beating fast, and it took effort for her to maintain a calm and warm facade. She had hoped against reason that Marshall would have dismissed his security team at least to the next room for his meeting with the escort, but of course that had been naive. Men like these had no shame, they would intend to share the experience.

She swayed through the center of the room, towards the windows. Cal—as he insisted on being called—took the last open seat. The tall man who had let her in stood, menacing, in front of the locked door she had come through. She surveyed the room, still trying to look friendly, casual. She noted with satisfaction that the bald man with the beard and the flat-topped guy with the unibrow were both present.

"Wow, what a room," she feigned impressed, "I bet you've got a great view all the way up here," she said, touching the edge of the curtain, ready to pull it back.

"Leave the curtains," the man by the door barked at her.

"Ooh, sorry," she pouted, childish. There went plan A. _Oh well_, she thought as she took note of the positions of the two bodyguards who had participated in the rape and murder of the young woman, Georgia.

"Careful, Matthew," Marshall said, "you don't want to frighten our guest."

Hell was all too aware of the number of objectifying eyes roving over her body. She focused on keeping her face free of worry, slouching against the wall beside the window, determined not to blow her cover until it became absolutely necessary.

The target spoke again, "You look hot in that coat sweetheart," his voice dripped with lechery. "Don, take the lady's coat," he instructed one of his men.

_Well, shit,_ she thought. She did not intend to remove her outerwear. She said nothing, and the flat-topped security man stood and approached her, hand extended to take her coat. She decided the time for play-acting had ended, and allowed her cheerful facade to fall away. Without hesitation she raised her knee forcefully into the flat-top man's groin, causing him to fall backward against the window and slump to the floor in pain. His leg was extended on the floor in front of her, and she brought her reinforced stiletto heel down on his knee, hard. The big man cried out in pain, and she felt a wave of satisfaction wash over her just before the gunshots rang out. Three in a row—luckily the man shooting didn't have great aim. She ducked, dodging the shots easily, pulling her knife from her boot. In the same moment, John burst through the door adjoining his room to the suite. Flat-top grabbed for her and she grabbed back, grinning, looking him in the eyes as she slit the man's throat. More gunshots rang out behind her, some muffled by a silencer—John's—others deafening in the enclosed space. Another of the security men grabbed for her, and she lashed out at him with her knife, slashing him across the chest. He stumbled backward and she took her chance, pulling one of her throwing knives from her coat to send it flying. He caught it in his throat and fell to the floor, gurgling. Hell reached for the curtain but as she closed her fist on a handful of it she felt a hand close around her ankle.

"Fucking little bitch!" It was Calvin Marshall, he had crouched behind a chair to avoid the flying bullets, and now he was yanking Hell's leg out from under her with one hand, the other clutching a short hunting knife. As he dragged her down, she kept hold of the curtain, pulling a significant portion of it down off its track. _You're welcome, Marcus_, she thought as their target plunged his blade into her back—before he collapsed backward onto the floor, a neat hole dribbling blood in the middle of his forehead.

14 John

The whole thing happened very fast. He slammed through the door as soon as he heard gunfire, and immediately shot a tall security man who had been aiming a gun at Hell. That left four more security men, and the target—three more security men, he noted as Hell slit the throat of the flat-top man, who was slumped against the wall. John crouched and rolled, dodging fire and then returning it. He hit the bald man in the shoulder before getting him in the chest, then the head to be safe. Hell had taken out another one, he lay on the floor, vacant-eyed with a knife protruding from his throat. As he was searching for her in the chaos, a bullet whizzed by—uncomfortably close—he turned instead to the threat and shot him—two closely grouped shots in the chest and one to the head. The room was suddenly quiet except for his and Hell's panting breaths.

John turned around to see her crouched on the floor between the lifeless bodies of Marshall and the flat-top man. One of the curtains had been ripped partially down, and the window was spiderwebbed from Marcus' single shot through it. He looked back down at Hell; she was still crouched, breathing hard—he noticed a knife protruding from the far upper left of her back.

"You okay?" he asked, approaching her.

"Yeah." She inhaled a hiss of pain. "Can you help me with this?" She gestured over her shoulder to the knife.

"Sure." He kneeled next to her. He could almost feel the pain radiating from the wound like heat. Delicately, he placed a hand on her shoulder to stabilize it, and with the other gripped the handle of the blade. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded mutely in response, and he pulled. She let out a subdued whimper as the knife slid out, then took a deep breath.

"Thanks."

The thick pile of her faux fur coat had prevented the knife from penetrating very deep, but John knew even shallow stab wounds to be extremely painful, especially as the adrenaline began to wear off. He stood and offered his hand to her. She took it, leaning on him as she rose, teetering just a bit in her high heeled boots. She looked around the room, nodding.

"Nice," she said. Her eyes landed on Calvin Marshall, his eyes staring sightlessly skyward. "That death was too good for him," she said quietly. Before John knew what she was doing she had pulled her handgun from her coat and fired three rounds into the man's groin, destroying whatever had been there.

"Let's go," he said, placing a hand on her good shoulder to direct her toward the busted door.

They met up with Marcus later at the Continental. Hell had been to see the doctor for stitches, and was more relaxed than usual due to having taken the doc up on his offer of pain meds. The three of them happened to be sitting at the same table at which they had their first meeting just a couple months earlier, and it was funny, when John paused to think about it, how very different it felt.

"To being $200,000 richer," Marcus toasted, more enthusiastic than John had seen him before.

"To getting rich!" Hell exclaimed, toasting with gusto.

John couldn't help but smile, raising his glass to clink against theirs.

Over the following months, Marcus brought them jobs regularly, and it became tradition for them to meet for drinks or sometimes dinner after a job was done. They still maintained a general veneer of professional seriousness, but in truth John had begun to look at Hell and Marcus fondly, as genuine friends. He wasn't sure if they felt the same way, but he was okay with that. The arrangement they had was working out just fine, and probably would only be complicated by sentimentality.

He and Hell continued to meet between jobs, often going to the warehouse to work on hand to hand combat, or to the shooting range. Her marksmanship was improving greatly, as was his own skill in unarmed combat, and it pleased him. He and Hell were becoming more deadly—and more evenly matched in deadliness—by the day. She didn't make any more midnight visits to his room after the first time. He felt a twist of chagrin remembering the way he had teased her about her age, though he had found it pretty funny at the time. He doubted she was actually much younger than himself, possibly older. She looked young, but for the most part she was mature, more so than himself in many ways.

Their work in the field had given John an immense sense of respect for Hell, and for Marcus. Facing death with someone by your side—and coming out alive—has a way of doing that. He admired both of them; they were dedicated, strong, focused, powerful. These were traits he had always wished to see in himself, nurtured and cultivated. Marcus had been right: John would have been a fool to refuse the invitation to work with him and Hell. They were all good at what they did, and as a team they felt unstoppable.

15 Marcus

Marcus rapped lightly on the door of Winston's private office at the Continental.

"Enter," came Winston's distinctive voice through the oak. He did so, and was instantly warmed by the space. To call it an office felt inaccurate; it didn't feel like a place of work. It felt to Marcus very much like a home, warm and worn like an old study. The walls, covered in shelves of books, gave one the sense that they should speak softly, and a few luxurious armchairs arranged around the fireplace invited guests to gather in comfort.

"Marcus," Winston called with a smile from his position by the fireplace, "I was hoping that would be you." He stood to meet Marcus, shaking his hand.

"It's good to see you, Winston."

"It's been too long! But of course I understand you've been busy." He gestured for Marcus to take his usual seat. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'll have what you're having."

Winston nodded and began mixing martinis.

"So, please, I'm eager to know"—he returned to his seat by the fireplace, handing Marcus a martini—"how goes business with our young friends?" Winston's expression was congenial, curious.

Marcus returned his smile. "It goes well," he said. "They're smart, focused, determined. They've shown a lot of growth."

"I should hope so, it's been nearly a year since you took them on."

Marcus took a beat to reflect on that fact. He was coming up on his 31st year of life, and was unused to the increasing velocity with which the years seemed to speed past. It was almost alarming to think that nearly a year had gone by when he still felt like he'd only just met Hell and John—yet another part of him recognized a kinship with the pair as if their little team had been together for years, lifetimes.

"Do you trust them?" Winston asked, breaking into Marcus' reverie. He paused, unsure how to answer. This was the first time Winston had bothered to question Marcus about Hell and Wick's trustworthiness. Since they met—almost ten years earlier—Winston had always ingrained into him a general sense of distrust, but they both knew that a person wouldn't get by in this world without allies. It was a fine line to walk. Marcus had trusted Winston for a long time now.

"Yes," he answered truthfully, "I trust them."

Winston nodded, turning his gaze to the fire blazing in the hearth. "I hope, for both our sakes," he said without looking at Marcus, "that you are right to do so."

Marcus had found a high-risk, high-pay job to bring to the team. It paid more than anything they had worked over the past year, but Marcus felt confident that they could pull it off, provided they could get to it. He called a meeting, not at the Continental this time but at his new home. A prewar brownstone he had purchased within a few miles of the hotel.

John and Hell had arrived on time as usual, together in John's Mustang. They sat in Marcus' newly furnished living room, each with a cup of coffee. He had arranged the room to feature the fireplace, with no television. Three comfortable armchairs surrounded a coffee table sitting in front of the hearth, in which a fire blazed. Pleasantries had been exchanged, both of the younger parties congratulating him on his new home, paid for in large part with his share of the money they had made together over the course of the last year.

"Do both of you have passports?" Marcus asked, getting down to business. John and Hell both nodded, looking intrigued. "Good," Marcus continued, "and do either of you speak German?"

Hell's face lit up. "I do, actually."

"Wunderbar," Marcus replied, smiling.

"Are we going to Germany?" John asked, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

"Not quite," Marcus told him. "Austria. Vienna, to be specific. It's high-risk, but if we pull it off it pays $500,000 each."

"I'm in," Hell said, leaning forward eagerly.

"Me too," John added.

"We'll stay at the Continental Vienna. The target is an American, Jackson Marx, declared excommunicado by the Continental. He's been hiding out in Vienna, we have contacts who recently located him. We're in a hurry, he could be moving on to another location at any time and we don't know how long it will take to locate him again." John and Hell were hanging on his every word, their eyes not leaving him. "He's extremely wealthy and dangerous, and like a lot of dangerous wealthy people he has a way of getting people to do things for him. We can count on him having an entourage, no way of being sure how many."

"When do we leave?" John asked.

"Tomorrow."

16 John

As they often did in the days before a job, especially one as high-risk as this, the hours sped past. Marcus had a basic outline, but the plan needed to be fleshed out, as many outcomes as possible planned for, plans gone over, memorized. The process was complicated by the foreign locale, utterly unfamiliar to John and Hell. Despite the inconvenience, John could not deny his excitement for the travel. He had never been to Austria, had not left the continent of North America since he moved there with his mother at the age of two.

By 2:00 am John was back in his room at the Continental, packing for the trip in the morning. _Songs from the Big Chair_ by Tears for Fears on the stereo. He had just zipped his last bag shut when he heard a light knock on his door. He peered through the peephole, and saw Hell standing in the hallway. He felt a sense of deja-vu as he opened the door.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Do you wanna come in?" John stepped to the side. Hell was clothed in sweatpants and an oversized The Cure tee shirt, hair and face natural. Her hair was getting longer, he noticed. She must not have cut it in months.

"No," she said. "Thanks—I mean—I've got stuff I gotta finish. But I wanted to ask—can I hitch a ride with you to the airport?"

"Yeah," John had already assumed Hell would be riding with him to the airport. She didn't have a car, and since they both lived at the Continental she often rode with him when they were going to the same place. "Of course," he added. He searched her face for something unsaid, unable to believe she came to his room after two in the morning just to ask for a ride that she already knew full well that he would give her.

"Thanks." For a fleeting fraction of a second he thought she was leaning in—about to relent and accept his invitation to join him in his room—but instead she took a step back. "I'll see you in the morning then."

"Yeah," he said, "seven o clock, in the lobby?"

"I'll be there," she said, raising her hand in a little wave as she turned to leave.

He watched her walk down the hallway, half expecting her to turn around, to return and voice the real purpose of her visit—but she didn't. She didn't so much as glance backward.

The next day they were in Vienna. It was exhilarating. He knew they were there on serious business, but the city was beautiful, and traveling from the airport to the hotel he felt as if he was on vacation. The air tasted different in a way he couldn't pin down, and everywhere he looked their surroundings were excitingly foreign.

Upon entering the hotel he felt some sense of familiarity—it being a branch of the Continental—however the layout was different, the decor had a different sensibility, and the hum of conversation around them was mostly in German. John only spoke two languages fluently; English and Russian. He also spoke some French, but not enough to call himself fluent. He wished that he, like Hell, could speak the native language of Vienna. He felt at a disadvantage, deaf to the meaning of the vast majority of the words being spoken in his vicinity. He made a mental note to start dedicating time to learning more languages.

They had a block of three rooms booked on the tenth floor, and by the time they got up to them it was midnight local time. John was exhausted—despite having slept for a significant portion of the eight hour flight—and the night was far from over. Marcus' Viennese connections were in the local drug trade, and it was through them that they would gain access to Jackson Marx. Apparently the target had a substantial cocaine habit. He thought he would be meeting his dealer in a public park called Kaiserwiese at 1:00 am, but it would be John, Hell, and Marcus there to meet him instead.

The park was mostly a great open expanse of grass, with a few large trees. Off in the middle distance stood Vienna's famous ferris wheel. John felt slightly star-struck looking up at it, he had grown up watching the Orson Welles classic _The Third Man_, and the ferris wheel scene had been a favorite of his. He used to have Welles' monologue from that scene memorized, in fact. Maybe he still had it somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he mused.

His musing was cut short by the approach of three men. He couldn't see their faces in the dark but the way they moved purposefully in his direction made him think they were the people he was looking for. Marcus and Hell sat on a bench about ten yards away, pretending to be uninvolved until it was time to fight. A street lamp illuminated the faces of the men as they passed under it, and John recognized the target.

"Mr. Marx?" he questioned when they were near enough.

"Yeah," said the target. "You Welles?"

"That's me," John lied, wishing he had picked a less obvious false name. "You have the money, of course?" The plan was to take the money for the coke, and take them out. The drug money would go to the dealers as compensation for their help.

One of Marx's cronies pulled a folded manila envelope out of his jacket, fat with bills. John put out his hand to take it, but the man pulled it back.

"Product first," he said in a thick Austrian accent.

"Of course," John reached into his coat and closed his fingers around the grip of a handgun. He could see that Hell and Marcus had moved, they were now standing just a few yards behind and to the left of the target and his lackeys. Marcus gave him a nod, and John drew his weapon and fired. He hit Marx in the chest, but he must have been wearing a tactical vest because there was no blood, he merely stumbled backward as if he had been punched. One of the cronies had pulled a gun and fired back at John, also hitting him in the chest. Luckily, John too was wearing a tactical vest. The pain was still extreme, but he knew it was far from deadly. Hell and Marcus had approached the fray, Hell springing from the ground onto the back of the man who had shot John. Her legs wrapped around his midsection and she looped a wire garrote around his neck and pulled it tight. The man choked and gasped for air, grasping unsuccessfully at the wire with his free hand, the hand holding the gun hanging—for a brief moment forgotten—at his side. John noticed and shot the man in the forearm, causing him to drop the gun. Hell was blonde tonight, her hair curly, and haloed in moonlight she looked to John like some crazed avenging angel.

Marcus had managed to shoot Jackson Marx in the head before the man even saw him coming, and now grappled with the Austrian man who had the envelope of cash. John decided Hell had her man covered, and went to Marcus' aid. He pulled the Austrian into a chokehold, and pressed the barrel of his gun into the man's temple.

"We didn't come for you," he said fierce and low in the man's ear. "If you give up now, give us the money, and get out of here, you can go on living."

The man stopped struggling and seemed to consider the offer. Hell had finished with the other one, and now she and Marcus both stood in front of the last remaining threat, guns drawn on him.

"Yah, okay," the man said finally, his body relaxing. John loosened his hold, but kept the barrel of his handgun pressed firmly to the man's head. Slowly, he pulled the manila envelope back out of his jacket, and held it out in front of him. Marcus nodded to Hell and she grabbed it, keeping her gun on the man as she stuffed the envelope into her own pocket. The man was now raising his empty hands at his sides in surrender. John released his hold.

"Get the fuck out of here," Marcus instructed. "Don't let us see you turn around."

The man turned and ran, not looking back. They watched him until he was out of sight, and breathed a collective sigh of relief when it seemed that backup wasn't on the way. The job had been completed, much more easily than anticipated.

17 Hell

Before 2:30 am they were back at the Continental, seated around a table in the restaurant. The kitchen was open 24 hours, which was a relief because it seemed that all three of them were starving. Hell ordered wiener schnitzel with a side of spätzle. She scarfed the meal down greedily, the breaded veal and cheesy dumplings deliciously satisfying. Marcus excused himself to return to his room as soon as he finished his food, claiming exhaustion. Hell and John were still too wired on adrenaline from the job—and the excitement of travel—to call it a night.

"Should we go for a walk?" Hell asked when they had finished their food and emptied their glasses. She often went for walks, but had never invited John to join her. Generally she enjoyed walking alone—specifically preferred to be alone in fact—but here in this new and foreign place it seemed appropriate to ask him. It was nearing 3:30 in the morning, but they weren't going to be in the city for long, and she wanted to see it.

"Sure," John shrugged.

They meandered around the quiet, winding streets in silence for a while, then John started pointing out German text and asking Hell to translate.

"What's that?" He pointed to a green sign in a storefront window.

"Apotheke: Pharmacy," Hell replied easily.

John pulled a flask out of his jacket and took a swig, then offered it to her.

"Bourbon?" she asked. He nodded. She took the flask and sipped, forcing herself not to wince at the taste. They eventually ended up back in the park where the job had gone down earlier. The bodies they left behind had been removed. John stared into the distance toward the ferris wheel, lit up bright against the night sky. When he gradually slowed to a stop, Hell stopped beside him.

"In Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed. They produced Michelangelo, da Vinci, and the Renaissance," he said dramatically, still staring—a little dreamily—at the unmoving ferris wheel in the distance. "In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce?"

Hell stared at John in silent curiosity. In a year of working together, this was the most she had ever heard the man speak at once, and she had no idea what he was talking about.

"The cuckoo clock!" he announced triumphantly after a brief pause, before turning back to her with a smile. She raised her eyebrows at him, confused, and he broke into laughter.

"You've never seen _The Third_ _Man_," he said. She shook her head, unable to suppress a smile. "It's an Orson Welles movie, takes place here. I watched it over and over as a kid. I'm surprised I still remember that whole monologue."

John swigged again from the flask and Hell laughed, the idea of John as a child memorizing Orson Welles monologues was ridiculous, delightful—almost painfully endearing.

Soon the flask was empty, and they were back at the hotel. Hell was still not ready to call it a night, though she knew it was late, and found herself accepting John's invitation to have more bourbon in his room. She was drunk, officially, and she thought he was too. They kept talking, having lost track of time.  
"Why'd you pick that name?" John asked a little blearily.  
Hell laughed, "What do you mean?"  
"Your code name!" John laughed too. "Hell," he growled. "Hardcore."  
"Pfft!" she exclaimed. "Whatever _John_, if that is your real name."  
"It is!"  
"John Wick is your full legal name?"  
"Legally, yes. Well, Jonathan Wick. So, basically. What's your name? The real one? I won't tell anyone."  
"It's Hell."  
"Lies!" John laughed and swiped a mock slap at her shoulder, fingers just grazing her skin. She smiled. He acted so hard and controlled out in the world, but in this moment he was so... different. Warm. Silly, even. She had never seen him with his guard down this much, drunk and making jokes, laughing freely.

The truth of her name was that Hell had always liked the idea of an alter ego, and in her line of work it seemed appropriate. She had leaned into a childhood nickname and sworn to herself that she would keep her true name a secret from anyone involved in this life. But there was something so earnest in John's face, and Hell suddenly realized that the tenderness she felt for him had grown much deeper than she had admitted to herself—they had become genuine friends.

He laid back on his bed, eyes closed, and rested his head on his interwoven hands. His feet were still on the floor, shiny black dress shoes still on. She sat beside him, cross-legged in stocking feet.

"You don't have to tell me your name," he said, "I just wanna know how you picked 'Hell.' I'm dying to know."

"Really," she finally conceded, "it sort of is my real name. When I was a kid... my parents used to call me Hell when I was being a little shit." She laughed, and John opened his eyes to look at her curiously. She met his gaze and continued, "It's Helen. My real name. That's the truth."

He stared blankly at her for a beat, brows raised, then sat up, smiling. "It's nice to meet you, Helen," he said as he extended a hand to shake, and she took it.  
"The pleasure is all mine, Jonathan." His handshake was firm, professional and friendly—she found herself appreciating his warmth, the softness and roughness of his skin—but quickly the handshake had lasted too long. For a moment that felt very long indeed they sat there together, hands no longer shaking, just hanging together between them, embracing. It felt good. Her gaze fell to rest just briefly on his lips, where an easy smile rested. She felt a flush rising from her chest to her cheeks, and broke away without looking him in the eyes, bouncing up from the bed.

"Shit, I'm tired!" She looked at her watch for the first time in hours, it read 5:56 am. She thanked John for the bourbon and slipped out of the room, shoes in hand.  
She stood outside the door, hand resting on the handle, listening to her blood rushing, feeling every breath. _What the hell am I doing? _she wondered to herself. She heard the bed creak through the door, John's footfalls crossing the room. The door handle shifted subtly—John's hand on the other side? She thought she could hear his breathing, inches away—and turned, padding down the hall back to her own room.

18 John

Hell left the room abruptly, not even bothering to put on her shoes. In that moment she reminded John of a spooked rabbit or a deer. He listened intently for the open and close of her door—mere feet from his own—and heard nothing. He crossed the room to his door and looked through the peephole. She was standing just outside, her face down, unreadable. What was she lingering for? He placed his hand on the door handle and considered opening it, but before he could she turned decisively and disappeared from view in the direction of her room.

_Helen_, John thought as he finally readied himself for sleep. He was surprised that she had told him her true name—he hadn't expected her to, but he believed her. Hell sort of suited her better, he thought. Helen was too soft, too pretty. Not that she wasn't pretty—she was beautiful—but she was too hard, too deadly to feel right calling her a regular name like Helen. He turned off the lights, and through the window he could see dawn beginning to break in the east.

When he woke from his unusually deep sleep it was just after noon. The combined effects of jet lag, sleep deprivation, and drink the previous night had caused him to neglect to set an alarm before falling asleep—normally he wouldn't allow himself to sleep so late. He rose and readied himself for the day, their last in Vienna. He knew they still had to do the money drop to Marcus' drug dealer friends, but John was hoping that afterward they would have time to enjoy the city. Maybe even go for a ride on the ferris wheel, he allowed himself to think. A childish idea which—he couldn't deny—filled him with excitement.

He showered quickly and put on a clean suit, not wanting to further delay the day's events. He picked up the phone and dialed Marcus' room, though it was next to his own and he could just as easily go knock on the door. Knocking felt a touch too intimate. He could faintly hear the phone ringing through the wall. It rang—three times, four, six, and on. John hung up the phone. Strange, he thought. He waited a few minutes—rechecking his appearance in the mirror, putting on his shoes and using a cotton cloth to buff out a light scuff on one toe—unsure what to do. Marcus was the one in contact with their local connections, he had the money, and he was the one who set their schedule when they were on a job. John felt momentarily lost without his guidance.

He picked up the phone and called Marcus' room again, listening to the phone ring through the wall to no answer. He went to knock on Marcus' door—no answer. He knocked again, listening hard for any movement on the other side. He heard none.

Possibly, he thought, Marcus had tired of waiting for them, and gone downstairs to the restaurant or the bar. John descended in the elevator and scanned the surrounding faces for Marcus. He wasn't in the lobby, the restaurant, the bar… A dull throb of alarm was gaining purchase in John's chest. It was very unlike Marcus to disappear like this when they were out on a job, and the fact that they were in an unfamiliar city made it seem only more unlikely.

John approached the concierge.

"Guten tag," the man behind the desk greeted him, "wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

"Hello," John replied, not sure what the man had said. "I'm looking for someone, I'm wondering if you can help me."

"I'll do my best, sir. Are you a guest of the hotel?" The man had a strong Austrian accent, but his English was good.

"Yes. I'm staying in a block of rooms with two associates, and I'm having trouble finding one of them. His name is Marcus."

The man's eyes lit up, "Oh yes, and may I ask what is your name and room number, sir?"

"John Wick, room 1022."

The man smiled, leafing through some papers on his desk and coming up with a small envelope.

"Your friend went out this morning, he dropped this off with me on his way and instructed me to give it to you and your female associate if you should come inquiring."

John took the proffered envelope, seeing his name and Hell's inscribed on it in Marcus' familiar hand. John thanked the concierge, and started to leave, turning back to the man at the last second.

"Do you remember what time he left?"

The concierge looked thoughtful for a moment, then answered with confidence, "It was just after 9:30 this morning."

John opened the envelope in the elevator. It contained a single piece of hotel stationary. "Good morning," it read. "If you're reading this, it means you managed to start your day before I returned from our final business errand here in Vienna. Congratulations. I've taken the money to our drug connections. It's a simple drop and I should be back within an hour and a half or so. If it's after noon and I still have yet to return to the Continental, something may have gone wrong. Our main local contact is Jörg, I have included his address and telephone number in case of emergency." At the bottom there was a local address and telephone number beside Marcus' signature.

John checked his watch; it was almost 1:00. Panic twisted his gut.

19 Hell

Hell was in the warehouse, standing in the old boxing ring. John was in front of her. Usually he wore jeans and a tee shirt when they were planning on sparring, but presently he was outfitted in one of his black suits. She realized that she too was not wearing her usual sparring clothes; instead she wore a red cocktail dress and high heeled boots. John stepped toward her, removing his jacket and tossing it to the side. She stepped to the side and they began to circle each other. John reached for her, and she caught his wrist. With a feeling something like déjà vu Hell remembered the previous night, she and John holding hands in his hotel room, and it dawned on her with sudden strangeness that she was dreaming.

She studied the dream version of John. He looked perfectly like himself, if maybe a touch too relaxed. She released his wrist. They could fight, but what was the point? She had plenty of opportunities to spar with John in real life. Instead, she stepped closer to him, and brought her hand up softly to his cheek. He looked at her with desire in his eyes. _Why not?_ she thought. _It's only a dream._ She wrapped her arms around him and breathed deeply, he even smelled like himself. She buried her face between his shoulder and his neck—breathing him in—and kissed him there.

"Hell," he said softly.

"John," she whispered, and kissed him again, on the mouth this time. He kissed her back and his arms encircled her, pulling her closer. They kissed deeply, deliciously. She grabbed the front of his black dress shirt with both hands and tore it open, the buttons flying. He wasn't wearing an undershirt, and she put her hands on his bare chest.

"Do you want to fuck me, John?" she asked, playful.

"Yes," dream-John answered as his eyes moved over her hungrily. She stepped away and bent to remove her boots, conscious of his gaze, and pulled her dress off over her head to reveal her nude body. He took her around the waist, pulling her to him. She could feel him—hard—through the fabric of his pants, and reached down to unbuckle his belt as he kissed her neck. The thought crossed her mind that fucking John was a terrible idea, but she dismissed it. In reality of course it was a terrible idea, but this was only a dream. She could allow herself to fuck her partner in a dream.

She was jolted into wakefulness by a loud pounding sound, coming from nearby. She mourned the loss of the dream, which still clung to the edges of her consciousness as she rolled over to look at the clock on the bedside table. 12:56, it read. She sat bolt upright—how had she slept so late? The pounding continued, and she heard John's voice.

"Hell, it's John," he said. "Open the door."

The sound of his voice alarmed her. There was a quality to it she hadn't heard before—fear, was it?

She rolled out of bed and got to her feet, answering the door in the oversized Pink Floyd tee shirt and underwear she had been sleeping in.

"What's going on?" she asked, gesturing for John to enter the room.

"It's Marcus," he said, talking fast, passing by her as she shut the door and seeming not to notice her disheveled, half-dressed state. "He's not here, and he left us this note." He waved a piece of stationary in her face. "Something's wrong, I think he could be in trouble."

"Slow down," she said. "Give me that." She gestured to the note and John handed it over for her to read while he paced the floor. She could almost feel anxiety coming off him in waves. As she read, his anxiety became more understandable; the contents of the note were not comforting. She glanced at the clock again, 1:00.

"John," she said firmly, keeping any hint of panic out of her voice. He stopped pacing and looked at her. She placed the note next to the phone and pointed to the phone number. "Call this number while I get dressed." He nodded. She pulled on a pair of black jeans as he dialed, and after only a moment someone on the other end picked up.

"This is John Wick, I'm looking for Marcus," he said in what Hell recognized as his professional voice. She pulled her arms in through her sleeves to put a bra on before removing her slept-in shirt—not wanting to be inappropriate, but also not wanting to go into the bathroom and risk missing any of John's conversation. He sat with his back to her, listening to the voice on the other end of the receiver before speaking again.

"What do you want?" he asked, voice still professional, measured, but thrumming now with an undercurrent of danger. She pulled a black turtleneck over her head.

"Put Marcus on the phone." Another pause, shorter, "Put Marcus on the phone or we leave this damn continent and you get nothing."

Hell sat next to John on the bed, and he switched the phone to his other ear, holding it between them so she could listen in.

"John?"

When Marcus' voice came through the receiver, she and John breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Marcus," John said, "are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, "for now. Marx fucked us over—his payment was light. These guys think we ripped them off. You got my note?"

"We did."

"Good—then you have the address. I'd appreciate it if you could get here as soon as possible."

"We'll be there."

"They want you unarmed," Marcus said.

"Should we adhere to that suggestion?"

"Yes, that would be wise—"

Marcus was cut off, someone having taken the phone from him. A man's voice, thickly accented, spoke instead.

"Enough. You have confirmation he is here, you have the address, we will expect you within the hour with the money. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Sehr gut." With that, the line went dead.

John hung up the phone and looked at Hell.

"What the fuck?" she said.

"They want 14,000 Schillings within the next hour or they say they'll execute him."

"Shit," Hell said, pulling on her Doc Martens, "then we better get going. Thank fuck the dollar is stronger than the Schilling… that's, what…" she did some mental arithmetic as she grabbed her bag, "like $1,000 USD, I think."

"They wanna kill Marcus over a thousand fucking dollars," John said quietly, a picture of barely controlled rage.

20 Marcus

Marcus had been asleep for an hour or so when the sound of laughter woke him. He listened in the darkness, and the sound came again; a woman's laugh from the next room. John's room, he thought—was the laughing woman Hell? Then a man's laughter—John's? The two of them were up in the middle of the night, making each other laugh like a couple of kids. _Good_, Marcus thought dreamily, _they practically are kids._ He drifted comfortably back to sleep, John and Hell's voices just barely audible through the wall.

In the morning, he decided not to wait for his protégés to wake. Instead, he took the money and left a note for them with the concierge before going to do the money drop alone. Jörg was still operating his midsize drug empire from inside an out-of-commission brewery, Marcus had been there when last he spent time in Vienna three years earlier. He buzzed the intercom at the front door of the brewery at 9:58 am. Inside, Jörg greeted him warmly.

"Marcus! It is good to see you, my friend!" He pulled Marcus into a hug.

"It's good to see you too, Jörg," he said, clapping the man on the back. Jörg was taller than Marcus by a few inches, with sandy blond hair that was always long enough to at least brush the collar of his shirt. He had always been a conventionally handsome man, but since Marcus had last seen him life had taken a significant toll on his looks. Dipping into his product a little too heavily, Marcus assumed. He observed the way his old friend looked somehow hollowed out, especially around the eyes, his skin having taken on a kind of gray undertone. Marcus could see the same overdrugged pallor on many of Jörg's underlings, Marcus counted fifteen of them doing various jobs and just hanging out around the large space.

"I can't stay for long," Marcus lied. He could if he wanted, but the truth was that there were many other things Marcus would rather be doing in Vienna than hanging out with Jörg and the members of his drug gang. He pulled the envelope of money out and handed it to Jörg. "It's all there," he assured him, "just as Marx gave it to us."

Jörg handed the envelope to a young man who was hovering nearby. He pulled out the stack of bills and began to count it rapidly.

"Are you enjoying being back in Vienna?" Jörg asked pleasantly.

Marcus smiled and shrugged, "It's been mostly work so far. Haven't had time to enjoy its particular charm so much."

"That's a shame," Jörg said, looking back at the young man who had counted the stack of bills multiple times already. The young man shook his head. Jörg turned back to Marcus—eyes gone cold—and before Marcus knew what was happening, his old friend had punched him, hard, in the face. There was no opportunity to react or retaliate before a blow from behind knocked him to the ground, unconscious.

He sat on an uncomfortable chair in a bare, windowless cell of a room, his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Jörg," he said, breaking a minutes-long silence, "you could remove the cuffs at least."

Jörg chuckled, seated facing him a few feet away. "I like you, Marcus, but I'm no fool. I've seen you in action. Even with you unarmed, I don't think I'll take that risk."

"You know," Marcus said, about to take a risk and too pissed off to care to stop himself, "if I wanted you dead, Jörg, you would be. Cuffs or no cuffs." Marcus had done the mental calculations. He could guess at his chances—if he killed Jörg—of getting out of the brewery alive, and found them wanting. Better to sit tight and wait for John and Hell.

Jörg laughed heartily. "Marcus, you _must_ learn when to keep your mouth shut." He pulled a handgun out from inside his jacket, pointing it at Marcus, and looked at his watch.

"You _must_ learn when to let a couple thousand schillings go," Marcus retorted.

"Is that a threat, my friend?" Jörg looked at him with infuriating amusement.

"Just a suggestion," Marcus told him, "and if you think we're friends after this bullshit you're fucking delusional."

"Oh, Marcus, you mustn't say such hurtful things to me."

Marcus chose not to reply.

Jörg tapped the face of his watch. "Your new friends are taking their time. I hope for both of our sakes that they haven't decided to leave you for dead."

"They'll be here."

"I do hope so, my friend. Did it cross your mind that possibly they are the ones who took my money, that they have no intention of coming for you?"

"I told you," Marcus said, unwavering, "I gave you everything Marx gave us. As per our agreement."

Jörg sighed theatrically. "You see, Marcus, it's a strange situation. Jackson Marx has never shorted us in the past, but when I decide to help you, out of the goodness of my heart—"

"And for a decent pay day," Marcus interrupted.

"Out of the _goodness_ of my _heart_," Jörg reiterated, "and I lost a good client in this deal, Marcus. And now, when he is gone, his payment is light? You must see why I find this suspicious."

"Fuck you," Marcus intoned under his breath just as a knock came at the door.

"Komm herein," Jörg called, still holding the gun on Marcus. A woman Marcus didn't recognize leaned into the room.

"Wick und Hell sind angekommen," she said to Jörg.

"Wunderbar!" Jörg exclaimed. "Haben sie das Geld?"

"Ja, sie haben es."

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. His German wasn't perfect, but it was good enough for him to understand that his team had arrived, and they had brought Jörg his ransom money.

"Sehr shön. Danke. Bring den Schlüssel," he said, and the woman retreated wordlessly. Jörg turned back to Marcus. "Looks like you are in luck my friend!" he said, holstering his weapon as he got to his feet. "Your friends have come through for you this time."

The woman popped back in, handing Jörg a ring of keys. Marcus' former friend approached him and removed the handcuffs. He rubbed his wrists where the metal had bitten into his skin, saying nothing. He wanted nothing more than just to leave that stinking brewery. Jörg walked him out into the larger room where Hell and John stood by the front door. He had not been so pleased to see anyone in a long time.

21 John

Upon their return to the Continental, they went straight to the restaurant. John and Hell hadn't eaten since their late dinner the previous day, and Marcus was craving a stiff drink. The three of them had barely spoken on the cab ride back, and after ordering their food and beverages silence again pervaded. Marcus had a split lip, but he didn't look too much worse for the wear. John was relieved. He and Hell were out $500 each, but that was a small price to pay to get Marcus back with them, where he belonged.

"It appears I officially owe the pair of you my life now," Marcus said, breaking the silence. "I would like you to know that I am grateful." He paused, bringing his eyes up to meet John's, then Hell's. "You saved my ass today. I won't forget it. And of course I'll pay back the money you lost."

John nodded, unsure what to say.

"Don't worry about it. That's why you have a team, right?" Hell said, and sipped her glass of water. "We're here to watch your back."

The edges of a smile came to Marcus' lips, his eyes softening. "I appreciate it."

The waiter arrived with their drinks, and Marcus rose his in a toast. "To watching each other's backs," he said, nodding to Hell and John in turn before the three of them tipped their heads back to sip in unison.

Things were different after Austria in a kind of intangible way. Except for Marcus' brief experience as a hostage the job hadn't been so out of the ordinary—ending with a lower body count than many of their jobs over the previous year—yet their forty-eight hours abroad had undeniably set in motion a shift in the dynamic between the three of them. Marcus still took the lead in most situations, but a sense of mutual respect had cemented itself, making the trio feel more like a team. Marcus had never treated them with kid gloves, but he hadn't quite treated John and Hell like equals either. That had begun to change.

Marcus appeared more regularly in the bar, often joining John and Hell for drinks. John's relationship with her had shifted also, in a way that was harder still to define. Mostly, they were closer. They sat together in the bar more than ever, and still met up in their free time to spar in the warehouse and shoot at the gun range, but John could sense a new wariness in her when they were alone together. She joked with him less, their conversations increasingly dominated by shop talk and lengthy bouts of silence. Her fighting style was different when they were training—there was less of the playful trash talk he had become accustomed to, and an increased focus on keeping John as far from herself as possible. He tried not to read into it—not to make it personal. After all, any relationship between them was one of business.

Her demeanor in her interactions with Marcus had warmed even as she cooled toward John. She had taken to lightly teasing the older man, often about his age, and could usually manage to coax a smile or even a laugh out of him over the course of an evening together. When Marcus went up to his room, Hell usually left soon after. John found himself feeling something akin to jealousy. He didn't think they were sleeping together—such a relationship would be wildly unprofessional—but the possibility had crossed his mind.

After a particularly strenuous job, the three of them sat together in the Speakeasy. Hell was slightly loopy on pain meds, having sustained a slash wound on her upper arm that had required stitches. They all had minor injuries from the night's work, but Hell was the only one who imbibed any of the hotel doctor's stash of opioids.

Marcus checked his watch, shaking his head and chuckling at Hell's slurred speech as she enthusiastically recounted an incident he and John had missed earlier. "—by that point he was so distracted I just took the gun right out of his hand! It was almost _too_ easy, actually," she finished, and sipped her gin and tonic contentedly. John laughed quietly into his bourbon.

Marcus laughed too and finished his drink. "I should turn in," he said, standing.

"Sweet dreams, old man," Hell said, saccharine, and blew him a kiss.

"Goodnight kids," he said, "don't poison yourself tonight, Hell." With a wave, he was gone.

Hell sucked up the last of her gin and tonic, which was mostly melted ice by that point.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Hell beat him to it.

"I should go up too," she stretched her arms over her head and yawned theatrically.

"You should stay," John said before he could think better of it.

Hell laughed, bursting a bubble of joy in his chest. "I'm at my drink limit," she said.

"So have coffee," he suggested.

"It's after one in the morning, John, too late for coffee!"

"Water, then. You should hydrate."

"You're not my dad," she said with an amused smile, "you can't tell me what to do."

"But I am your partner," John replied, unable to contain a smile himself. "I'm supposed to watch your back, right?"

She met his eyes with unexpected tenderness, her typical hard facade having slipped away for the moment.

"I can take care of myself," she said after a beat, then cleared her throat and rose, pulling the hem of her skirt straight. "Spar tomorrow?"

"You're on," he answered.

22 Hell

She was trying to keep her cool, but in the months since Vienna it had become increasingly difficult. She didn't exactly regret her decision to tell John her true name, she trusted him, but it did make her question her judgment—especially when she was drinking. She had entered a new period of celibacy. She told herself that it was an effort to conserve her energy for the work, but on some level she knew the truth. Every time she got intimate with a man, she was unable to get John out of her mind. She didn't often remember her dreams in detail, but the dream she had in Vienna—while Marcus was sitting handcuffed in a drug den—had stuck with her. It almost seemed that the more she tried to put it out of her mind, the harder the thoughts clung to her. Thoughts of John's lips on hers, on her neck, his hands on her naked body…

So she withdrew. She was spending more time than ever with John and Marcus, but she kept them at a distance, in the interest of professionalism. Especially John. She went to bed early, and alone. She didn't go to John's room, and she didn't invite him along for any activity except for combat training. Ceasing combat training was not an option, she decided; they both still had room to improve.

Four months after Vienna, Hell was having a particularly tough couple of days. John was reaching out to her, trying to get closer, she could feel it. Part of her wanted desperately to reach back—which gave her only more reason to withdraw. She had barely left her room since their last job three days ago, except to make an excursion to a nearby bodega to restock on gin, tonic water, limes, smokes, and candy bars. She was falling into a self-destructive spiral—a phenomenon she recognized from her past—and felt powerless to stop it. A sense of crushing loneliness gripped her, she craved the feeling of intimate embrace, and she worried that if she saw John or even Marcus something might snap within her and she would do something stupid, irrational, unpredictable even to herself. Like throw her arms around him, burst into tears, attempt to kiss him… Something that would shatter their working relationship.

Her room was a mess, and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. This wasn't wholly unusual—she had never been a very tidy person—but over the past few days it had reached a new low. The floor was so strewn with dirty clothes that it was barely visible, and her trash cans were overflowing with empty cigarette packs and candy wrappers. She hadn't been allowing housekeeping in.

She opened the windows wide in an attempt to air the place out. The weather was getting colder, so she wrapped herself in a duvet against the draft before curling up in a chair by the window to smoke a cigarette. She watched the clouds go from pastel pink and dreamsicle orange to lilac, violet, finally indigo as the sun sunk further below the horizon. She sipped a gin and tonic and listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees' _Hyæna _on cassette as she lit one cigarette after another. Halfway through her third smoke she heard a knock at the door and ignored it, hoping someone had the wrong room and would realize it and move on. A moment later they knocked again, slightly more forcefully.

She rose—reluctantly—dropping the duvet from her shoulders, and went to the door still smoking. Looking through the peephole she saw what she had simultaneously been hoping for and dreading: John was standing outside her door. Her heart rate picked up, and she took a single deep breath in an attempt to slow it before opening the door just enough to lean out—not wanting John to see the disaster zone she was living in.

"Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Hey," John said, taking in her rumpled appearance. "Marcus said he hadn't heard from you since Saturday, I just wanted to make sure you were still alive in there."

"As far as I know," Hell replied shortly. "That all?"

John paused, studying her. "Can I come in?"

She glanced over her shoulder into the room, then looked back to John.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said.

"I let you in my room," he pointed out.

"So?"

"So you should let me in."

She took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the hallway before replying, "Fine, fuck it."

She opened the door and stepped aside, allowing John to enter. _Let him see what a fucked-up mess I am,_ she thought. _Maybe if I'm enough of a bitch, he'll never drop by like this again. _

23 John

He didn't really think she could be dead, but he was genuinely concerned. It had been three days since their last job together, and neither he nor Marcus had seen hide nor hair of Hell. That hadn't happened even once before in the sixteen months or so they had been working together, living in the same hotel. Usually Hell was eager to get back in the ring with him after a job, resting for just a day or maybe two if she had been injured. Even more unusual was her absence from the bar; John was used to running into her there at least briefly nearly every night.

He was concerned, but also—he had to admit—he missed her company. Down at the Speakeasy John sat across from Marcus, drinking in silence. The silence was amicable, but nonetheless they both felt her absence, John thought. Hell brought something to their gatherings that neither of them could. She had a certain vitality, an unpredictable streak of humor that changed the atmosphere between them. Marcus left early to attend to business. John ordered one more bourbon, watching the entrance in the hope that Hell would show up. By the time he finished the drink she still had not appeared, and he had resolved to go to her room and check on her.

She answered the door wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants. Her hair, which she hadn't cut since before Vienna, was pulled back into a messy nub of a ponytail, except for the pieces in front that fell forward to obscure her eyes. She was smoking a cigarette, and did not seem pleased to see him. Her golden eyes were tired, smudged black with old makeup she hadn't bothered to remove. Her fair skin—usually perfectly clear—was dotted with acne around her jaw and in the hollows of her cheeks, which looked slightly more hollow than usual.

She didn't want to let him in, and he wanted to respect her wishes—but upon seeing her he felt an even greater need to talk to her, to make sure she was okay. She didn't look very okay. He pressed her—only lightly—and she relented. Upon entering the room, he understood why she'd said it wasn't a good idea. The place was a disaster. The polar opposite of his own neat room a few floors above, despite the fact that the rooms themselves were almost exactly identical. There were clothes everywhere, including a number of lacy bras and underwear from which he deliberately averted his eyes. She crossed the room to the two chairs which sat in front of the windows—which were wide open, letting a fierce draft into the room—and shoved a pile of clothes off of one of the chairs onto the floor. She kicked the pile to the side before wrapping herself in the duvet that was draped over the other chair and sitting in it, feet up, legs curled in front of her.

She ground out her cigarette butt in a large ashtray which overflowed at her side. It was ringed with little sculpted ceramic skulls. He sat down in the chair she had cleared—presumably for him—and watched her pull another cigarette from her pack and light it. She settled into her seat, huddled under her duvet, cigarette in one hand, one of the hotel's heavy glass tumblers in the other. In the glass was what he guessed to be a gin and tonic, though it didn't have ice, and she had no straw with which to eviscerate the slice of lime that sat—intact, ignored—at the bottom of her glass.

She smoked and sipped her drink in silence, almost as if he weren't really there. She faced the window, eyes on the sky, dark and moonless, hanging like a velvet backdrop beyond the buildings, punctuated with sparse pinpricks of starlight. He studied her face in profile; her brow was slightly furrowed, just enough to reveal two fine lines in the smooth skin between her dark eyebrows. Her lips, unpainted, were pulled into a taut line, one corner slightly downturned. Eventually, she turned and met his gaze.

"What are you doing, John?" she asked. Her tone was short, but she held his gaze, and he saw the inner corners of her brows twitch upward, almost imperceptibly sympathetic.

_Looking at you_, he thought, _trying to figure out what's going on with you_. "I just want to make sure you're good," he said.

"Well, I am. Peachy, in fact," she answered, flashing him a tight-lipped and plainly disingenuous smile before rolling her gaze back to the window.

"Good," John said, though he was not convinced. "It's just…" he trailed off, not sure how to approach her in this unfamiliar state.

"What?" she snapped in response, whipping her gaze back to him, eyes narrowed.

"Where have you been?" he asked cautiously.

"What does it matter?"

"You don't seem like yourself."

"How the fuck would you know?" she spat. "Listen, John, just because we work together now doesn't mean you know shit about me, okay?" She went back to looking out the window, puffing angrily on her cigarette.

He didn't speak, taken aback by the venom in her words. She knew him, he thought, better than almost anyone. At times—especially when they were sparring, or out in the field together—he felt like she could read his mind. He thought he knew her. Even now, with her acting so unusual, he felt like he knew her. Like if he just tried hard enough he would be able to figure out what was going on with her, even if she refused to tell him.

She finished her cigarette and lit another. He wondered how long she had been chain-smoking like that for. He looked around the room—clothes everywhere, the small trash can overflowing candy wrappers and cigarette packs onto the floor. He wondered if she had been here alone in this room since he last saw her three days earlier. When he returned his gaze to Hell, her eyes were on him, her expression still hard but now edged with pain.

"Stop," she said firmly.

"What?"

"Judging me."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not," he insisted earnestly. He wasn't. He wouldn't. He didn't consider himself in any position to do so. Her hard exterior seemed to crack then, and he glimpsed an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability in the lines of her face as she looked away from him. There was a shiny quality to her eyes that made him wonder if she might be close to tears. He felt an urge to go to her, to take her into his arms, to tell her…what? That he cared about her? That she could talk to him? That whatever she was going through, they could get through it together? That together they were unstoppable, unbeatable? He wasn't sure exactly what it was he wanted to say, but it didn't matter. He knew he couldn't. It wasn't his place to involve himself in her emotions. Instead, he stood.

"Marcus will have a job for us soon. You gonna be ready for it?" he said as if their conversation had been entirely normal.

"Yeah," she said, low, "I'll be good."

"Okay," he said. He went to the door, but before he could leave she spoke again.

"John?"

He turned and she was looking at him, the expression on her face still vulnerable, pained, her eyes apologetic.

"Spar tomorrow?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. He gave her a little smile and a nod, a silent acceptance of her unspoken apology. She gave him a half smile in return, but her eyes were sad, brimming with things left unsaid.

Outside her door, he lingered. He heard something that may have been a choked sob and almost knocked on her door again, but restrained himself. Whatever she was going through, she didn't want him there, and it wasn't his business. Better to give her space, he thought. As he walked away, he heard a strangled scream of frustration and the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. In his mind's eye he saw Hell in her room, hurling her gin and tonic glass with force against the wall.

24 Hell

Hell met John in the hotel lobby the next morning, as per their routine on sparring days. She was feeling rough. Three days of excessive smoking, drinking, and junk food had taken their toll. In the car she was quiet, too embarrassed by her actions the previous night to know what to say. She hadn't brought her cigarettes. She had smoked so many in that room over the last few days that when she looked at the pack sitting by her overflowing ashtray that morning the thought of smoking in John's car—as she usually did when she rode with him—made her want to gag. She had bagged them up with the rest of the trash. Now, however, she was kind of wishing she had them. She didn't know what to do with her hands or her mouth without them.

"Did you forget your cigarettes?" John asked, sensing her awkwardness.

"Oh. No, I quit."

"Congrats," he said brightly.

She went quiet once again, and was grateful when John said nothing more on the subject.

In the ring, she could feel the mistreatment of her body more acutely. Her muscles felt stiff after days of disuse, she took extra time stretching them out before combat.

"Ready?" John asked, leaning casually against the ropes opposite her.

"Yeah," she shook herself out a little bit, trying to get in the zone. When she looked up, John had moved to the center of the ring. He beckoned to her, the edge of a playful smile curling one corner of his lips. She moved around the perimeter a bit, beginning to circle him slowly, faster, then feigning right—left—zigzagging toward him swiftly. As soon as he was within reach she swung out at him with a fist—he dipped, sweeping her legs from under her. She slammed down on her back and he was on her immediately, pinning her with one knee on her right arm, the other on her solar plexus, her left arm restrained by both of his hands.

"Ooh," he said wryly, "I pinned you _already?_ I think that's a record."

She was impressed with him, frustrated with herself, and determined to get back up. She lifted her legs into the air, kicked her feet and swung them back down, trying to throw John off, but he had her firmly pinned. She planted her feet on the floor and pulled her knees up to lever her body side to side, shifting John's position, and managed to get an arm free. She grabbed the collar of his tee shirt and twisted it around her hand to choke him. He reached to his neck with one hand and she yanked her other arm free, and punched him in the ear. John's balance wavered again and she was able to maneuver her body out from under him. Keeping hold of his shirt collar she got behind him and pulled the fabric tight around his neck with both hands. He struggled, grabbing at his shirt, and suddenly she heard the tearing of fabric and the shirt came loose from his body. She fell back slightly, and John nailed her in the solar plexus with an elbow. She sat back on her haunches, and they both gasped for air. John had fallen forward onto his hands and knees, his torso bare. She noticed that his back was tattooed with a large, ornate cross, and some words in a foreign language, which she found a little surprising. She wouldn't have guessed he was the type for gaudy religious ink.

She tossed the torn fabric of the tee-shirt aside as they rose to their feet. Too hastily she swung out at him once again with her fist and he dodged the blow—caught her wrist and danced around her to twist her arm painfully behind her back. She cried out momentarily and rammed her free elbow into his stomach. He staggered back and she twisted free. She paused for just a beat to catch her breath—briefly registering the scarred, muscled beauty of John's naked chest.

"Is that all you got?" he asked between gasps for air. She threw another punch—he blocked it. Another—blocked. Another—blocked—then he swung back and she dipped, dodging the blow as she swept his legs out from under him as he had done to her earlier. He went down with a grunt. She dropped to straddle his bare chest, pinning his arms to his sides with her strong thighs, leaning her forearm on his neck.

"Is that all you got?" She echoed.

John laughed—though he could scarcely breathe under the pressure of her arm—and grinned at her, nodding. She let him up, and he excused himself to retrieve a fresh tee-shirt out of his car. They went for another couple hours, the score just about even by the end.

Getting into the car afterward she felt better, revitalized. She was sore, but the pain felt constructive. It had been a good workout. And the adrenaline buzz went some way toward distracting her from the nicotine craving. John got in the Mustang, and put the key in the ignition, but he didn't turn it. He turned instead to her.

"You should come for a drive with me," he said.

Her instinct was to say no—no to anything that might mean them being alone together more than they had to be for work purposes… but she was grateful to him for looking past her unprofessional behavior the previous night, for making her feel like herself again in the ring. She felt she owed him one. And—she hated to admit—she had missed him. His company soothed her, and his eyes were communicating something unclear and irresistible, and before she knew it she was accepting the invitation.

They arrived after a while at a closed gate, and John must have known the guy manning it because all he had to do was give him a wave and they were in. On the other side lay a massive expanse of tarmac.

"What is this place?" Hell asked.

"The airport owns it, they pile snow here when there's a bad winter or something. Most of the time seems like it's just empty."

He stopped the car at one far edge of the tarmac, facing the center, and rolled the windows down. He turned to Hell, his expression playful, mischievous.

"Are you ready?"

"For?" she asked, and felt a smile pull at the corners of her mouth.

John just smiled in reply and turned back to face the windshield. After a beat, he gunned the engine, propelling the Mustang forward in a smooth curve. The car gained speed fast, air rushing loud around their ears. Suddenly John wrenched the steering wheel to the right, and in moments the car was gliding sideways, drifting in an arc across the tarmac. Hell looked at John; his face was lit up in a full-blown grin of childlike glee, and she found that her own expression had morphed into something similar. He straightened the car out and leaned again on the acceleration before whipping them into another curve. The speed and the freedom of it were exhilarating—like flying, she thought. A whoop of joy rose in her chest, and she released it, howling like a kid on a roller coaster. John turned for just a moment to look at her, still grinning, and let loose his own howl of exhilaration out the window. He sped and spun the car around the asphalt slab for close to half an hour, neither of them speaking, just enjoying the feeling of speed, the loud rush of the air and the roar of the car's engine. Then finally John sped directly for the closed gate, slamming on the breaks at the last second screeching them to a halt just feet away.

"So," John said, glancing at her sidelong, "what do you think?"

"Are we done?" she asked, not wanting it to be so.

"My friend here is off in a few minutes," John answered, waving again to the man as they drove through the open gate. "His replacement isn't as cool about this as he is."

"Damn." She turned to face him. "That was rad. Thank you. I needed it."

"I thought you might." He kept his eyes on the road, an easy smile on his lips.

25 Marcus

Something was going on between Hell and John, exactly what that was Marcus couldn't be sure. They were spending what appeared to be the vast majority of their time together. Obviously they were working and training together—with great success; they had even started working lower-risk jobs together without Marcus—but he detected something else just below the surface of their professional relationship. He caught each of them casting longing glances at the other when they thought themselves unobserved, noted the way Hell's eyes always drifted back to the entrance when they were in the Speakeasy without John, and the way she lit up when he entered her sight. John's eyes too lit up when he saw Hell, and fell when she left. He had never told them they couldn't become romantically involved, but he didn't think he had to. They were young, but they weren't stupid. Obviously they knew a romantic or sexual relationship between them would be a distraction, unprofessional and unacceptable. Still, Marcus was becoming concerned. In matters of the heart, he knew that logic often didn't stand a chance.

He had not told Winston of his suspicions, but Marcus thought that he too had picked up on something even from his removed vantage. He had invited the three of them for dinner in his private dining room at the Continental, something John and Hell had yet to have the pleasure of. Winston's private dining room was decadent, a great crystal chandelier adorned the ceiling over the mahogany table, reflecting off the high shine of its polished surface. Winston welcomed them warmly.

"I can't tell you how pleased I am to have the three of you here," he said, smiling as he shook their hands, "especially to spend more time with the two of you."

"It's a pleasure to be here," Hell said graciously. "Thank you for inviting us."

They sat at the table, Marcus and Winston on one side, John next to Hell on the other. Wine was served, and Winston raised his glass.

"A toast," he said, "to allies, old and new."

Marcus had been somewhat concerned about how Hell and John would fare in this professional social situation, but they were doing well. Neither of them was drinking too much, which had been a primary concern. He wasn't worried that they were alcoholics, but he had known both of them to let their professional exterior slip somewhat after a certain number of drinks. Hell's sense of humor was coming through, but only enough to heighten her charm, and John's icy demeanor had softened just enough to make him likeable. Mostly they both kept their eyes on Winston, their expressions attentive.

"So," Winston said when they were some way into their meal, "Hell, Jonathan, I'm curious. How have you been enjoying your time here at the Continental? You've both been staying with us for quite a while now."

"It's a beautiful hotel," Hell replied, ever the more talkative out of the pair. "I find myself hard pressed to think of a reason to stay elsewhere."

"It's a very fine establishment," John agreed, nodding.

"I've observed that the pair of you spend a fair amount of time in our Speakeasy downstairs," Winston prompted. Marcus glanced at him in his periphery, wondering what the man was getting at. What exactly had he observed?

"Yes," Hell said, "it seems to have become my default watering hole."

"And the other patrons," Winston continued, "you have found them friendly?"

"Friendly enough," Hell answered.

Winston directed a questioning look at John.

"I don't do much socializing," John said.

"Now, why is that?" Winston asked, "A handsome young man like yourself, I would think you had at least become acquainted with some of our female guests."

John briefly looked caught off guard by Winston's implication, but he recovered quickly. "I like to keep things professional," he answered.

"Good for you, young man," Winston replied, looking pleased. "Now, tell me," he continued, addressing the pair of them once again, "what possibly could have brought two such bright young people as yourselves into a business so unforgiving as ours?"

Marcus looked at Winston. It was an incredibly personal question, he was shocked that his mentor would ask such a thing. Hell and John too seemed unprepared to answer. It was something of an unspoken rule of etiquette in their line of work not to ask what events had led people to it. But Winston—while usually a stolid upholder of rules and unflaggingly polite—was occasionally prone to consider himself above said rules.

"Same way anyone might choose a career I suppose," Hell said tactfully. "I've always been skilled in violence, it made sense to pursue it as a means of income."

Winston nodded. Marcus was impressed at the diplomacy with which Hell had danced around the question.

Winston had turned his gaze to John. "And you?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but before he could a forceful knock sounded from the large oak doors behind him.

"Oh, excuse me," Winston said. "Enter!"

26 John

John was relieved when the knock at the door came before he could answer Winston's latest personal question. The dinner seemed to be going well, the wine and food were delicious, but Winston was hard to read, and John was sure he was being tested somehow. He could only hope that he was testing well. A man who looked to be around Marcus' age entered the room at Winston's word.

"Viggo! How can I help you, my friend?" Winston said, rising to meet the man and shake his hand.

"Thank you, Winston. I hope I'm not being terribly disruptive," the man said in accented English, gesturing to the table where they were seated. John recognized his accent as Eastern European.

"It's quite alright," Winston assured him. "You know Marcus of course, and have you met our young friends?"

Marcus had begun to stand, but Viggo held up a hand. "Please, don't get up," he said, "and no, I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he turned to John and Hell, offering a hand to shake, "Viggo Tarasov," he introduced himself.

John shook the man's hand and introduced himself, as did Hell. Viggo Tarasov, he was sure the name was familiar but he didn't immediately place it.

"Ah," Viggo said, his eyes alight with interest, "so you are John Wick and Hell, I have heard of you."

"Oh?" Hell said with a curious smile.

"Yes," Viggo said, "I've been impressed with your work, very reliable, efficient. You've been worth every coin. My family will continue to send work your way."

Of course, John remembered, Tarasov was the name of the Russian crime family in New York. They ran about half of the murder-for-hire business in the area.

"I appreciate that," Hell said, smiling, "it's always nice to be praised when you know you do good work."

"You're welcome. It's nice to finally be able to put faces to your names."

John cast a look to Marcus, his gaze was on Winston. He wasn't sure, but he thought he read anger below the surface of his features.

"Well," Viggo said, turning to Winston, "I apologize for the interruption, Winston. You and I can discuss our business another time. Marcus," he nodded in his direction, "good to see you as always."

"Likewise, Viggo," Marcus said without animation.

"Mr. Wick, Ms. Hell, it's been a pleasure meeting you. I look forward to our work together in the future."

Winston's questioning eased up after their unexpected guest had left, and John was relieved. Marcus and Winston seemed to be having some kind of silent disagreement, adding an air of tension that was different from before the interruption, but it had taken some of the heat off of John and Hell. As soon as the plates were cleared, Marcus was getting to his feet.

"Thank you for dinner, Winston. I'm sure we all have business we must get back to."

"Of course," Winston said, "you know I always enjoy our time together, Marcus." They shook hands, their faces communicating something complex which only they two of them could understand. He approached John and Hell.

"It has truly been a pleasure getting to know the two of you a little better," he shook their hands in turn. "I suppose I will continue to see you around the hotel," he said.

"Don't be a stranger," Hell said with a smile.

Winston returned the smile, replying, "Likewise."

Marcus left them, claiming business, and made the strange request that John and Hell stay out of the Speakeasy for the night. They agreed without asking questions, instead ascending to the Penthouse; a bar and restaurant at the top of the hotel offering something more of a fine dining atmosphere. John had been there with Hell a few times previously, when the Speakeasy was overly crowded or they were craving a change in the menu.

They got their usual drinks, and seated themselves at a small table in the bar's lounge area. Hell spoke first, after spending a while in comfortable silence stabbing the lime in her drink.

"Well that was strange," she said, looking up at John as she placed the straw between her burgundy-painted lips to sip.

"Which part?"

"The whole thing, right? The questions, the second in command of the Tarasov family dropping by unexpectedly, Marcus telling us not to go downstairs." Her voice was low, confidential.

John nodded. She was right.

"I wonder why Marcus didn't want us meeting Tarasov?" she added.

"Why do you say that?"

She shot him a knowing look. "You saw him," she said, "he was pissed at Winston. I'd say Marcus knows that visit was no accident of timing—people don't just drop in on Winston without him knowing they're coming. Tarasov wanted to meet us, and Winston arranged for it to happen."

John sipped his bourbon, nodding. He had been thinking something similar, and hearing Hell say it made it feel real. "Why do you suppose he wanted to meet us?" he asked.

The corner of Hell's lips curled into a charming half smile and she tossed her hair, long and dark today, over her shoulder. "Probably because we're the best young guns on the scene right now," she said.

John smiled too. He didn't think her confidence was misplaced. They had been pulling more and more jobs over the last few months, often multiple in a week, with a 0% failure rate. They were stacking coins like crazy. Hell sipped her gin and tonic.

"And I would bet," she said, "if we went down to the Speakeasy right now we'd find Tarasov. Probably talking to Marcus."

27 Marcus

Marcus entered the Speakeasy and found exactly what he expected: Viggo Tarasov. He was sitting at the end of the bar, near where John and Hell often sat when they were there.

"Hello, Viggo," he greeted his colleague, taking the seat next to him and ordering a vodka soda.

"Marcus," Viggo replied, "what a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon."

"Are you surprised?" Marcus asked, knowing the truth.

"Not really," he admitted with a roguish smile, "but I am pleased to see you. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your meal?"

"Indeed. Despite the interruption."

"Oh, Marcus, are you cross with me? Don't be. I simply wanted to meet your young protégés."

Marcus' expression remained stony.

"I've heard so many things," Viggo continued, "and they've done such good work for my family, you must understand my curiosity."

"You could have come to me directly."

"You keep them on such a tight leash, my friend, I'm sure you can see why I would think that involving Winston would expedite the process."

"And I suppose Winston told you this would be a good place to get further acquainted with them?"

"I had hoped that I might be able to have a more casual chat with them here, yes. However I suspected I might end up talking to you instead."

Marcus sipped his drink and studied Viggo. They had been running in similar circles for close to ten years, both of them steadily moving up in their respective sides of the business. Viggo's father was the head of the Tarasov crime family, and though Viggo had an older brother—Abram—he had managed to surpass him in the family hierarchy, rising to the position of second in command before he was out of his twenties. Over the years they had found themselves working frequently in the same vicinity, and had struck up something of a friendship. Viggo knew that Marcus was reliable, good at his job, and he often brought jobs to Marcus before anyone else. Still, Marcus was wary of him. It wasn't wise to get too comfortable around mafia types, he thought. At the end of the day, their allegiances lie with their families, and if it suited the family they would get rid of you, no matter your relationship.

"Winston gave me the impression that it has been part of your intention in allying yourself with these newcomers to introduce them to your connections. Am I not one of those? Forgive me for failing to see where I've crossed a line."

Marcus didn't answer immediately. Instead he sipped his drink, keeping his expression neutral, his gaze on Tarasov as he formed a response.

"Hell and Wick have raw skill, but they're still green," he said. "They need more training. Introductions will come with time. I handle vetting the jobs when we work together. That's what they've agreed to."

"You don't own them, Marcus," Viggo said.

"And what do you mean by that?"

"I mean no offense," Viggo raised his hands as if to imply innocence, "simply that if I should offer Mr. Wick and Ms. Hell work directly, without involving you, it would be up to them if they would like to take it."

"I've never stopped them from taking a job," Marcus told him firmly. Hell and John had been doing more jobs without him lately, having more of an appetite for it than he did at this stage. Still, he liked being the one to bring jobs to them. Though they were highly skilled, they were still inexperienced, and he knew better than they which jobs were good, and which were too high risk to be worth what they paid.

"You're right," Marcus continued, "I don't own them, but I do have a vested interest in keeping them alive. I would consider it a professional courtesy if you would continue to approach me first when you need something done. I will see to it that my associates get the message. As for their social lives; that's none of my business."

Viggo nodded and finished his drink. "I understand," he stood, "it was good catching up, Marcus." He extended a hand and they shook.

"Thank you, Viggo. I'll see you soon I'm sure."

"I'm sure." He smiled at Marcus and disappeared into the crowd and out of the bar.

28 Hell

Things were going well. She still felt something not entirely professional for John, but it was under control. They were working together better than ever, taking higher-risk jobs and pulling them off flawlessly—often with Marcus, often without him. They were working so much, in fact, that they had little time for combat practice. Still, they found time to go to the warehouse and spar—sometimes late into the night—and she took to joining John for his trips out to the airport to do stunt driving in his Mustang.

They had just finished another job, a woman who used to work for the Tarasov family. She had double-crossed them; fed information to the opposing crime family in the city, the Italians, resulting in the deaths of a number of mid-level Tarasov people. The D'Antonio family hid her in a safe house upstate, but Marcus had found her without too much trouble. The three of them had taken a day trip up to her location and eliminated the target, along with a handful of D'Antonio affiliates tasked with her protection.

They drove back to the city as the sun set, enjoying the scenic atmosphere. Marcus drove his own car, Hell rode shotgun in John's. She had been gazing out the window in silence a while, watching the trees go by, when John spoke.

"I love it up here." He paused—as if questioning if he should finish a thought he'd only half-articulated—before adding, "It reminds me of where I grew up."

She looked at him. His eyes were on the road, his face serene. He didn't look at her. She turned back to the window.

"Me too," she said. She thought about asking him where he had grown up, but it felt too personal. She didn't need to know. _Bizarre Love Triangle_ by New Order—a song Hell quite liked—was playing on the radio, and she decided not to stifle the urge she felt to hum quietly along.

"I wanna buy a house up here," John said after a while, "when I have enough money."

Hell laughed, "We probably have enough already," she said. She hadn't really meant to say "we" but it had come out that way.

John glanced away from the road at her for just a moment, and she caught his smile in her peripheral vision.

When they got back to the city they went not to the Continental, but Marcus' home. He had invited them for dinner, a variation on their usual tradition of post-job dinner at the hotel. They helped themselves to drinks in Marcus' kitchen and chatted with him while he prepared a meal of steak and roasted vegetables.

When they sat down to eat, Hell raised her glass. "To Marcus," she said, "for cooking us this beautiful meal."

Marcus smiled and they clinked glasses.

"To Marcus," John toasted.

"Seriously," Hell said between bites, "you could be a chef, this is delicious."

Marcus chuckled. "Thank you, Hell. But the pay isn't nearly high enough."

After dinner, Marcus directed them to the living room. A fire burned low in the hearth, and he added on another log before excusing himself from the room. John sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs, sipping his bourbon as Hell perused the various sundry displayed on Marcus' mantel. A tiny ship in a bottle; a jade-colored ceramic vase with a unique cracked pattern to its glaze, a bundle of pussy willow branches sprouting from its slender neck; a small, ornate dagger in a matching sheath resting on a little stand. She picked up the dagger to examine it more closely. The hilt and sheath were composed mainly of ivory, and at the end of the hilt was the head of a hawk sculpted in silver. She unsheathed it. The blade was razor sharp, carefully stoned.

"That once belonged to Winston." Marcus' voice came from behind her. "He gifted it to me many years ago."

"Nice," she said, sliding it back into its sheath and replacing it on the mantel. "It's beautiful." She turned around to see Marcus smiling, a plastic bag bearing the RadioShack logo in hand.

"Have a seat, Hell," he said. "I have gifts."

She took her seat beside John, who was eyeing their mentor with curiosity. Marcus sat and produced out of the bag two identical boxes, handing one to each of them. The boxes were labeled "Nokia Cityman." Hell gave Marcus a puzzled look, and John let out a laugh.

"Aw, Marcus, you shouldn't have," he said, grinning as he opened the box. "How much did these things cost?"

"Don't worry about that," Marcus said, grinning. "You know I can afford it."

Hell opened the box and extracted a gray plastic object. It was approximately the size, shape, and weight of a brick, but it had a set of buttons, an antenna.

"Uh, fancy walkie-talkies?" Hell guessed. John and Marcus laughed.

"Almost," Marcus told her. "It's a cellular phone."

Hell began to laugh too. She had only just recently become aware of the existence of mobile cellular phones. They were supposed to be something like a car phone without the car, and she found them a somewhat ridiculous extravagance.

"This really is too much," she said, turning the device over in her hand, feeling its heft. She had to admit, it was kind of cool.

"It's the way of the future!" Marcus was grinning as he added, "I thought they would give us a competitive edge in the field."

Hell looked at Marcus—the lines in his skin standing out as his face crinkled in delight—and she felt a great affection for the man.

"Thank you, Marcus," she said. "I'll cherish it forever. A gift from my surrogate father."

This sent Marcus into a fresh bout of laughter. "I'm not that old," he said.

"Close enough," she replied, grinning too.

"I don't know where I'm gonna put this thing," John said, cramming the phone into an inner pocket of his suit jacket, then patting the large rectangular protrusion on his chest. Hell doubled over in a fit of giggles.

29 John

The mobile phones were a little ostentatious, but Marcus had been right: they did give them a competitive edge in the field. They could now easily keep in contact with each other while tailing a target, and they generally had more freedom of movement when they were on jobs. John had started carrying a leather shoulder bag when he was away from his car, the main purpose of which was to house the phone. A perfectly practical solution, which Hell nonetheless seemed to find hilarious.

"Wow, cute purse," she had teased him the first time she saw him carrying it.

"Thanks," he had said. "I've been so jealous of all of yours I figured I should get my own."

That made her laugh. He loved to joke with her. Their lives were so serious most of the time, he cherished the moments when he was able to make her smile or laugh.

The jobs—and thus the coins—kept rolling in. Since their dinner with Winston a few months previous Marcus had been more up-front with them about where their jobs were coming from. He was still hesitant to introduce them around very much, but he had started giving them more background information on his contacts. Most of their work came from the Tarasov family. Marcus hadn't explained why he had been opposed to them meeting Viggo Tarasov that day, but John and Hell agreed it was to do with the surprise nature of the meeting. Marcus hated to be surprised. They hadn't run into the man since.

John walked into the Speakeasy and looked for Hell. He spotted her not in her usual seat at the end of the bar, but seated across from Winston in his booth. She spotted him too—almost immediately, as if she had sensed him entering the room—and caught his eye across the distance. He went to the bar and took a seat, ordering his usual. Before he had finished the drink Hell appeared, seating herself at his side.

"Hey," she greeted him.

"Hey."

Her hair was a reddish blonde today, curly, and somehow it made the green in her eyes stand out more strikingly.

"How's Winston?" he asked.

"Good." She finished her drink and motioned to the bartender for another. "He asked after you. I told him you're well, as far as I know."

John nodded. He had been doing well lately. "How are you doing?" he asked.

"Just lovely," she said with a smile as her fresh drink arrived. He watched her with quiet amusement as she performed her usual ritual of muddling her lime into her gin and tonic before she sipped it. "And you?"

"Good," he told her. "You want a ride to Marcus' later?"

"Well, since you're offering."

"Oh, I'm not," he said facetiously.

"Shut up," she chuckled.

They arrived at Marcus' place at 7:00, he had invited them for dinner and to discuss a potential job. The food was delicious, as it always was when Marcus cooked—pesto pasta with chicken this time—and they spent the meal socializing and enjoying each other's company before adjourning to the living room to talk business. It was another job for the Tarasovs, the target a local businessman turned crooked politician who was foolishly attempting to blackmail some of the Tarasov higher-ups.

"It's a high-paying gig—$600,000–" Marcus told them, "but I can't be on it. This guy has done some work with the Tarasov family over the years, and he and I have been introduced before. He knows what line of work I'm in, and if he saw me the cat would be out of the bag. So far we three are the only ones who have been offered the contract, so it's up to you two if you want to take it."

John looked at Hell, who looked back with a subtle smile and nod.

"Why's it paying so high?" John asked. "What kind of risk level are we looking at?"

"Tarasov wants it handled quickly; the blackmail issue is time-sensitive. The risk shouldn't be too bad. He doesn't have bodyguards, and he doesn't seem like the sharpest knife in the block, but his office and home security are good. There's a very limited window when he's out in the open: when he leaves his office at the end of the work day he walks a block and a half outside to the ramp where he keeps his car. That's when you'd want to get him. Tomorrow."

John gave Hell a nod.

"Tell Tarasov we'll handle it," she told Marcus.

30 Hell

Hell had been loitering around, keeping an eye on their target's office building for close to an hour when he emerged. They hadn't expected him out for another hour at least, but there he was. She was pretending to window shop at a boutique across the street from where he stood, watching him in the reflection. He was out in front of his office building, talking on what looked like one of the same cellular phones that Marcus had gifted her and John. It looked stupid, she thought, but she couldn't deny the convenience. She pulled her own phone out of her purse and dialed John.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Hell,"

"Hey."

"Our target came out early. He's standing in front of the office building, alone."  
"What's he doing?"  
"Talking on one of these fucking phones if you can believe it," she said and chuckled.  
"Why? He left his office to talk on the phone?"  
"Maybe he feels like a big man using his fancy expensive toy in public, who cares? Just get down here now."  
"Great, I'm on foot right nearby, I'll be there in a couple minutes."

"Great, see you soon," she was about to hang up when John continued.

"Shit," he said under his breath. "I didn't put on a vest… I'm just gonna come anyway."

Hell laughed, though she wasn't sure if he was joking or serious. "Okay, go back to the hotel and get a vest on then get here! I'll try not to kill him without you."

"I just won't get shot, how about that?"

She laughed again. "You're an idiot, I'll see you soon."

She ended the call and shoved the phone back in her bag, walking down the street a little way, keeping the target at the edge of her vision, hoping he wouldn't disappear back into the building before John could get there.

In just a few minutes she saw John round the corner, putting him down the block from the target. He had gotten there fast—her relief at which was swiftly supplanted by concern. Was he joking about not having a vest on? He had arrived too fast, she thought, there was no way he could've gone back to the hotel and gotten to her that fast. She hoped that he had been joking, even though it would be a stupid thing to joke about. If he was joking she was going to tell him exactly how stupid a joke it was as soon as she could talk to him. And if he had been serious about not wearing a vest, and he hadn't gone back for one… she dismissed the thought before she could examine it more closely.

Hell crossed the street, placing herself thirty feet or so away from the target, on the opposite side from John. It's going to be okay, she told herself, even if John isn't wearing a vest. The target didn't know what they looked like. All John had to do was close enough to take him out without getting burned, and they would be out of there, both of them $300,000 richer. John was getting close, only about five yards from the target and closing the distance, Hell wondered why he didn't shoot. The target was facing her, his back to John, the street was clear of other pedestrians, and she knew John could hit a bullseye with accuracy at a greater distance than that.

The scene unfolded as if in slow motion in front of her: their target turned away from her just as John began to reach for his weapon, and with shocking speed the target had drawn a handgun of his own and the crack of a gunshot was echoing like thunder off the canyon of buildings surrounding them. John looked shocked and stumbled backward a step as bright blood bloomed over his chest. His eyes connected with hers for just a moment before his knees buckled, and his face tilted strangely to the sky as he collapsed on the sidewalk.  
Rage rose like bile in Hell's throat at the man who had shot John and—almost equally—at John for brazenly ignoring the most basic rule that Marcus had ingrained into them. The target turned to run in her direction. _Good_, she thought. She took off running and clotheslined the man as he passed her, sending him down hard on the sidewalk. She heard his skull crack against the cement, just before she fired two quick rounds into it.

She didn't stop running until she reached John. The front of his formerly white shirt was already mostly soaked with blood, and a small pool of sickening crimson had begun to spread across the sidewalk around him. She dropped to her knees and placed her hands over the wound, trying to make a seal of them. The bullet had entered just below his left clavicle. _Fuck, that's bad, _Hell thought, _that's a bad spot to have a hole in you_. Keeping pressure on the wound with one hand she reached into her purse for the cell phone. Her hand was slick with blood and she couldn't still its shaking, but she managed to dial Marcus.  
"Hello?"  
"Marcus," she cried, "it's John, he's hit, it's bad." She felt her voice break as she added, "We need you."  
"Where are you?"  
She gave him their location and urged him to hurry—though she knew he would have anyway. She shoved the blood-smeared phone back into her bag. Her vision had gone blurry, and she realized she was crying. She wiped at her cheeks briefly before realizing it was pointless, stupid; her hand was covered in blood and John was bleeding out from a gunshot wound before her eyes. She replaced her hand over the one still holding pressure on the wound and tried to make a perfect seal of them, but in the periphery of her vision she could see the pool of blood creeping alarmingly across the sidewalk.  
"John," his name escaped her like a sob. She tried to breathe and spoke to him again, willing him to open his eyes. "John, can you hear me? Wake up." She forced herself to breathe. She'd seen him shot before—when he was wearing a vest—once in the arm, another time in the leg. Even when he was hit in the leg he had faltered only a moment before getting back up and continuing the fight despite a limp. That was the thing about John; he always got back up. She had never seen him lose consciousness. She had never seen him bleed so much.

"Wake _up_, John, get up," she said, trying to keep her voice firm, but hearing her own desperation. "You have to get up. You're not dying. You're _not_ dying here, okay?" She wasn't sure if she was just saying what she, herself, wanted to hear, but she had to say it. The pool of blood spreading out from him, them, was getting bigger. _Too much blood_, her mind screamed in horror, _John can't afford to lose so much blood! _She continued to try to make a perfect seal over the wound with her palm—but it was impossible, blood still spilled out in little rivulets from her hands. It occurred to her that in all probability the bullet had gone straight through him, and he was losing blood out of the exit wound as well.  
Tears streamed uncontrollably down her cheeks. She sniffled and took a deep breath, steadying herself. She bent over John, bringing her face close enough to to hear his breathing. The sound of his breath tugged at her heart. "I'm sorry, John," she whispered, "please don't die. Stay with me. You can't die."  
She heard the screech of tires behind her; Marcus had arrived.

31 Marcus

Marcus answered the phone on the second ring. He knew that John and Hell were out on the Tarasov blackmail job without him, and hoped that it wouldn't be one of them calling.  
"Hello?"  
"Marcus!" It was Hell's voice, frantic, and Marcus felt the icy grip of fear take hold within him. "It's John, he's hit, it's bad. We need you," her voice broke, ragged with emotion.  
"Where are you?"  
"In front of the office building, by the alley."  
"I'll be there," he said, already standing.

"Hurry," Hell choked out before Marcus slammed down the receiver.  
In a flash he was in the car, tearing through the streets toward them. He turned down the alley and came out mere feet from them, slamming to a stop. He jumped out of the car and ran to Hell's side.  
"I'm here," he said pointlessly.  
She was kneeling next to where John lay on the sidewalk, in a spreading pool of his blood. He appeared unconscious, eyes closed, face calm, his limbs splayed unnaturally around him. His shirt, once white, was almost entirely crimson under his black suit jacket. Hell's hands were clamped firmly over a wound in his chest, just below his left clavicle, blood seeping between her fingers. When she looked up at Marcus, her expression was a desperate plea, her cheeks streaked with blood, mascara, and tears. He pulled the back door of the car open and crossed to John's other side.  
"Come on," he said as he knelt, sliding one arm under John's back, the other under his knees. "Keep holding pressure," he said, though it was obvious, as he lifted his young friend's limp form. He felt surprisingly light in Marcus' arms, he hoped it wasn't because of the blood loss. John's clothes were dripping wet with his blood, Marcus felt it soaking through his own clothes, sickly warm and wrong. Hell slid with him into the backseat.

"Put one hand over the exit wound, keep pressure on both," he instructed Hell as he slid into the driver's seat and started the car. They flew through side streets toward the hospital. Time was of the essence, he didn't like how much blood the kid had lost. He looked at the pair of them in the rearview mirror. They were covered in blood. Hell was still crying, still holding pressure on John's wounds. John was still bleeding, still not moving, getting paler.  
"He needs the hospital," Hell choked out, "the Continental doc won't be able to save him."  
"I know," Marcus assured her, "we're almost there."  
When he glanced in the rearview again Hell was bent over, eyes closed, her lips pressed to John's forehead. Marcus looked away.

32 John

The cellular phone in his bag was ringing. He pulled out the bulky thing and answered.  
"Hello?"  
"Hey, it's Hell," her voice came through the device.

"Hey," he said.

"Our target came out early. He's standing in front of the office building, alone."

"What's he doing?"

"Talking on one of these fucking phones if you can believe it," she said and chuckled.

"Why? He left his office to talk on the phone?"

"Maybe he feels like a big man using his fancy expensive toy in public, who cares? Just get down here now." She sounded only lightheartedly impatient.

"Great," he said, smiling, "I'm right nearby, I'll be there in a couple minutes."

"Great, see you soon."

"Shit," he said, realizing he had neglected to dress for combat before leaving the hotel. "I didn't put on a vest… I'm just gonna come anyway."

Hell laughed. "Okay, go back to the hotel and get a vest on then get here! I'll try not to kill him without you."

"I just won't get shot, how about that?"

She laughed again, "You're an idiot, I'll see you soon."

He hung up the phone. He considered going back to the hotel, but he was so close to Hell now, and what if he missed the action? Or worse—what if Hell got burned before he got there? What if she got hurt? Rationally knew she could take care of herself, but irrationally… he turned the car onto the street where Hell was staking out their target instead of heading back to the hotel. He would take his chances without a tactical vest. After all, it was a low risk job. The target probably wouldn't even have a gun on him, he thought.

Mercifully he found a nearby parking space and in just minutes walked around the corner to find the target exactly where Hell said he'd be, talking on his cellular phone. He saw Hell cross the street so they were on opposite sides of the man. He approached, wanting to get close. The man's back was to John, and in case he was armed John wanted to get a clean headshot on the first try.

He was moving to draw when the target turned to face him, and before John could look away, their eyes connected. He knew what John was reaching for, and as John drew so did the target. Before he knew what had happened, hot pain ripped through his chest. He staggered backward a step, his ears ringing. He looked at the target, his gun. It was pointed at John. Had there been a gunshot? He couldn't remember.

He looked beyond the man with the gun, Hell was there, looking back at him. She was so beautiful, but a strange look swirled over her features. What was it? Concern, rage, fear, illness, love? _I should go to her_, he thought, _I need to tell her I love her_, and with that the world went dark around him.

"John."  
Hell's voice echoed in his head, but she didn't sound like herself.  
"John, can you hear me? Wake up."  
He thought she might be crying, but he couldn't see her. Her breathing was irregular, panicked.  
"Wake _up_, John, get up. You have to get up. You're not dying. You're _not_ dying here, okay?"  
"Okay, I'm up," he tried to say, but he couldn't be sure if he had spoken aloud or only in his mind. He was walking down a darkened hallway—_the Continental,_ he thought, _but why is it so dark?_—and he was sure Hell was somewhere nearby. She was scared, he felt as if he could sense it somehow. He could hear her breathing, trying not to cry. He needed to find her, to help her, to make sure she was okay. There was something that he desperately needed to tell her, if he could only remember what it was.  
"I'm sorry, John," she whispered, so close.  
He reached out for her in the darkness, but she eluded him. _Don't be sorry,_ he tried to say, but this time he was sure she couldn't hear him.  
"Please don't die. Stay with me."  
_That's all I want_, he thought, _to stay with you, Hell. I love you. _He realized that was what he needed to tell her, and wished desperately that his voice would work so he could do so.  
"You can't die," she said with heartbreak I'm her voice.  
_But I might die_, he thought. He wasn't sure why, but suddenly—there in the dark—death seemed a very real and terrifying possibility.

He woke in an unfamiliar room. He felt he had been asleep a long time, so long that he wasn't sure when or where he had gone to sleep. Couldn't remember a damn thing except a vague but intense concern for Hell. As his eyes adjusted he realized the iv in his arm, the institutional bed; he was in a hospital. Something about the job rushed back into his mind, he hadn't worn his vest, the target saw him coming, Hell...  
"Good morning," Marcus said. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed, a worn paperback copy of Stephen King's _The Shining_ in his lap.  
"What happened to Hell?" In the fog of his mind it was the only question he could summon.

"She's okay. She finished the job, got out without a scratch."  
John felt a tension release in his body, sighing, relieved. "Good."  
"How are you feeling?"

"Foggy," John said truthfully, "and my chest—" he shifted his body slightly and pain flared in the upper left part of his chest, he winced.

"Do you remember what happened?" Marcus asked.

John closed his eyes and tried to think. He remembered talking to Hell on the phone as he walked down the street, deciding not to go back for his vest… then his memory became dreamlike. He thought he remembered the sound of a gunshot, not silenced like his and Hell's would have been, and pain, fear, Hell crying… he remembered feeling an urgent need to tell her that he loved her. He had never really allowed himself to articulate that thought before, that he loved Hell, but he knew it to be true. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

"Was I shot?" he asked, opening his eyes to look back at Marcus.

"Yes, in the chest," Marcus confirmed, "You nearly bled out. You were lucky to have Hell with you. And lucky she could call me."

"Where is she?"

Marcus looked away from him, "I think she left. It was a long night."

John realized that Marcus's shirt and pants were heavily stained the dark rust red-brown of dried blood. _My blood_, John thought. Marcus must not have gone home since it happened. John felt a swell of affection for him.

The doctors insisted John stay at least one night for observation. Marcus went home a little while after John awoke, and he was left alone except for the nurse who came through every couple of hours to check on him. Normally he didn't accept pain medication, but the wound in his chest hurt so intensely that he was gratefully taking all the morphine they would give him.

Every time he saw a shadow darken the doorway he found himself hoping it would be Hell. He expected her to visit, wanted it desperately, but the longer she didn't come the more convinced he became that she wouldn't. That was okay, he decided. He could wait until he was back at the Continental to see her. To thank her for saving his life. To tell her… not to tell her that he loved her. That would be the end of their working relationship, he knew it, and he couldn't risk losing her as a partner. They were too good a team.

The next day, Marcus picked him up from the hospital. John saw that the upholstery of the backseat was covered in horrible dark bloodstains.

"Oh no," John said, looking at the ruined upholstery. "Marcus, your car…"

"Don't sweat it," Marcus said easily.

"I'll pay to have it replaced," John insisted.

"Absolutely not," Marcus insisted back. "I said don't sweat it."

When they arrived at the hotel, Marcus produced an envelope and held it out to John.

"Hell asked me to give you this," he said.

John took the envelope with a kind of reverence. "Thanks, Marcus," he said, "for everything. I can't thank you enough."

"You're welcome, John. I'm just glad you're still here."

Walking into the hotel felt a surreal homecoming. He had the strangest feeling of being out of time—both that he had been away for no time at all, and that he'd been away for a lifetime. Alone in the elevator, his finger hovered momentarily over the button for the 14th floor before he thought better and hit 16, his own floor. He would go to Hell later, he thought, after he opened the envelope. He tore into it as he walked up the hallway to his room. It contained a single sheet of stationary, and the message inscribed in Hell's distinctive hand was short.

_John, _

_I've gained all I can from our partnership, at this point it's become a liability. I'll be working alone from this point forward. Don't take it personally. You will be great on your own. _

_Good luck - Hell_

He stopped in his tracks.

"No," the syllable escaped him in a pained exhalation. He took a single step back toward the elevator, possessed by the idea to descend to Hell's floor, go to her and demand an explanation. Instead, he went into his own room, sat down heavily on the bed and read the note again. "It's become a liability," he read, "Don't take it personally…"

He dropped the note into his lap and put his head in his hands. It was over. She had ended it, and she was right to do so. He had been foolish, careless, and he could have gotten both of them killed. She was right not to want to work with him any longer. And he had been a fool, high on morphine, if he had thought for even a second that she would want to hear that he was in love with her.

33 Marcus

Marcus found Hell sitting alone in a corner of one of the hospital's many waiting areas. Her head was bowed, hands clasped between her knees, morning sunlight slanted in through gaps in the blinds to fall in golden stripes over her. The surgery had taken hours, and it had been hours more that Marcus waited by John's side before he woke, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to leave. Neither had Hell, apparently. She had washed her face and removed the blood streaked blond wig, but she was still wearing the same black jeans and tee-shirt she'd had on when he picked her and John up the previous day. The black did a fair job of camouflaging the bloodstains, but Marcus could still see them clear as day.  
"He's awake," he told her. After a moment's hesitation he added, "He asked about you, first thing when he woke."  
She closed her eyes. Her expression was pained, and she said nothing.  
"I told him that you got out fine."  
She unclasped her hands and dropped her face into them. "Thank you, Marcus."  
"Of course."  
Silence hung heavily between them.  
"I can't see him," she said quietly without raising her head.  
"I understand," he told her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "He'll be fine, Hell. Go home. Get some rest."

The next day, Hell showed up at his front door. She looked rough; not made up, her hair contained haphazardly under a black beanie cap. Her eyes were puffy, dark circles beneath them.  
"Good morning, Hell. What a pleasant surprise."  
"Hey, Marcus," she said, looking up at him with a meekness he was unused to. "Can I come in?" she asked.  
"Of course."  
He showed her in and offered her a drink, which she accepted gratefully. They sat facing each other in the living room, the fireplace cold in front of them. The third chair in the arrangement sat empty next to Hell.  
Silence reigned for a while, Hell meticulously shredding the lime in her drink, Marcus sipping his coffee.  
"What is this about, Hell?" he finally asked, though he could have guessed. She took a long sip of her gin and tonic before meeting his eyes.  
"I can't work with him anymore," she said, looking back down at her drink. "He could have died, and I..." Marcus could see that she wanted to explain herself, but she was struggling, not wanting to sound emotional.  
"John's going to be fine," he assured her, "and even if he had died," Marcus said coldly, though the words were bitter on his tongue, "it would have been his own fault."  
"I was supposed to be watching his back..." she said, and he could hear her pain.  
"He's his own person. We all make choices. He made the choice not to put on a tactical vest. That isn't on you."  
Hell sighed heavily and shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said, "I'm done. I'll work alone from now on." Her words felt final. She had made the decision already. "I just wanted to thank you, Marcus," she continued, meeting his gaze again, "for everything. I don't think I would have survived this long without you. I'll never forget what you've done for me."  
He nodded to her. "Of course, Hell," he said, his face softening. "And if you'll remember, you've saved my ass on more than one occasion yourself. I won't forget that."  
She gave him a sad smile.  
At the door, she handed him an envelope.  
"Would you give this to John for me? When he's out of the hospital?"  
"Sure," he said as he took the envelope. "You should say goodbye to him, Hell, if you're leaving. In person. He would appreciate it." It felt a shade too personal once it was out of his mouth, but it was too late.  
"I'll be around. For a while, at least," she said.  
They shook hands, and Marcus wondered if it would be the last time. He hoped not. When he returned to his living room, he noticed the dagger she had admired once not so long ago had disappeared from its stand on his mantelpiece.


End file.
